


The Peridan Chronicles

by marmota_b



Series: The Peridan Chronicles [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Biology tidbits, Crossover, Friendship, Gap Filler, Gen, Golden Age (Narnia), Long, Narnian Subcultures, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Slice of Life, Spiritual, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmota_b/pseuds/marmota_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, How a Certain Really Old Man Survived in a Different World. Although he did not come out of it unchanged... The Golden Age could not happen without some hard work.</p><p>As close to canon as possible for Chronicles of Narnia, slightly AU for Highlander. Rated for possible language and violence (language hopefully just hinted at, violence cannot be avoided at times). Originally posted on FanFiction.net, currently still in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which a certain really old man becomes lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heliopause](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heliopause/gifts), [WriterWilf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=WriterWilf).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started posting this story on FanFiction.net. Someone here bookmarked it, so I thought it could be a good idea to post it here as well, in a slightly more cleaned-up state here and there.  
> And while I'm here, I'm making use of the nifty gifting function and dedicating this story to Heliopause, who has given me her time and thoughts on Narnia and was a sounding board for some of my ruminations on this. The other dedication is to WriterWilf over on FF.net, who kindly let me have one of his plot bunnies for this. Even though it will probably take ages before I get to that point.
> 
> I cannot explain how this combination came to be. It's an idea that formed in my head on its own, and once it got there, the only way to get it out was to write it. Once it got there, many little things began to make sense, even though it's so completely random...  
> This is a piece of fanfiction. Rather obviously, I own neither Narnia and all the characters and places therein, nor the Highlander universe. I only own some copies of the books of the Chronicles of Narnia, original and translation, which I keep constantly checking to see if I got it right. As I cannot do the same with Highlander (I'm only checking online), I'm most probably taking some liberties, and call it an AU. I may occasionally steer into fanon territory in details; if I'm aware of that, I'll try to give credit where it is due (and welcome all help in that regard if you know better than me).  
> I will try and keep the author notes to minimum and make it all make sense on its own. But I cannot promise anything.  
> I also cannot promise that this will be updated on any regular intervals. I know where it starts, and I know where it ends, but a lot of what happens in the middle is still unclear... I'm open to ideas, but bear in mind that this has a fixed end, and ideas that do not lead there (or do not fit into the narrative as a whole) will most probably be dismissed...

**Chapter 1**

**In which a certain really old man becomes lost**

 

"You really are getting soft in your old age."

The words, muttered in solitude inside a medieval-style encampment tent, were incongruous with the young face they came out of. The man, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a rather prominent nose that gave his face a vaguely classical outlook, was dressing up into a dark green velvet doublet, decorated with an embroidered coat of arms on the front and golden stitches at the hems. On a low bench next to him lay a sheathed sword emblazoned with an identical coat of arms on the cross guard: a unicorn and a gryphon; sided by two sprawling lions on the sword, standing on its own on the clothes, which were apparently fashioned after the sword. The clothes were new; the sword showed signs of use.

"Mag!" he cried out after a while of unsuccessful fumbling with the doublet.

A young woman dressed in a red houppelande entered the tent.

"Need help?" she asked, smirking in a friendly manner.

"Yes! How am I supposed to tie this on? It's so... tight."

"I hope not!" she said, worry flashing across her face. "You'd have to put on a lot more weight for it to be tight, I am sure."

"Well," he conceded, "not really tight, but look, you know me; I'm wearing oversized sweaters all the time."

"And trenches," she added. "Yes, I can see where you're coming from."

She started smoothing out the doublet on him and tying it at the places he could not reach himself. When she was finished, she stepped back to admire her work.

"Put on the belt and sword," she said.

He obliged her.

"You know, you look good in these clothes," she said. "The fit's good, if I say so myself; much better than your usual thrifted stuff."

"It's custom fit; of course it's good," he said and smiled at her, rather self-consciously.

"Come on, Adam," she said. "This is your big day; show some enthusiasm!"

"You make it sound like I'm the bride," he said. She burst out laughing.

"If you are, the father of the bride's a grizzled old man," she said. "A friend of yours is waiting outside, saying I should tell you it's Joe."

"Joe!" he cried out, panic entering his face and voice. "Oh, no."

"What's going on?" she frowned at him in surprise. "Not a friend?"

"No, no, definitely a friend, one of the best. It's just... He can be very snarky."

"That must be what he has in common with you, then," she said. "Relax. You're not this panicked normally."

"Normally, I am not about to be knighted," he said. "The idea of the sword laid next to my neck is freaking me out, if you really want to know."

She looked at him curiously.

"It's blunt," she said.

"It's still a sword," he shrugged. "Mag, I'm sorry if I'm freaking you out, too. I certainly do not want this to affect you badly in any way, but... I'm beginning to wonder why I agreed to this whole thing in the first place."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Definitely the bride," she told him.

"Do not mock me, Mag," he said. "I do not want to break courtesy with you."

"Now, that's better," she grinned. "And remember, from now on it's Lady Marguerite de la Mer, and you are going to be Lord Peridan. I go tell your friend Joe you are ready."

She left the tent. He watched her go, still wondering why he had agreed to this. Why had he let his identity of Adam Daniels, student of history, draw him into the world of re-enacting and "creative anachronism"? Why had he let Mag, Margaret, Marguerite talk him into it?

On her part, it was the sword, he knew. She had dropped onto him one late evening, trying to drag him to some party, and seen the sword lying next to his bed. And being the re-enacting nerd she was, instead of getting a fit about a guy who had a naked (and sharp) sword lying next to his bed, she fell in love. Not with him, thankfully; she was in a very happy relationship with a fellow re-enactor (she did medieval, he did Civil War and the War of 1812, they accompanied each other to events – no one cared that none of these periods really applied to the Seacouver area). She fell in love with the sword and demonstrated terrifyingly detailed knowledge of its kind and use, even for a student of history. And talked him into joining her re-enacting group.

Which was the part Methos could not make head or tails of.

Being able to carry his sword in public again was a sweet pleasure for a man who had done so for about fifty centuries only to be stopped by modern age. He did not go into fights willingly, not these days; but a sword had always also been something of a status symbol, and as much as he liked to keep a low profile, he sometimes missed the more straightforward approach of his earlier days. So yes, that was a plus. The company was also a plus – they sure were nerds, and some of them were borderline crazy, but both could be applied to him as well, so he saw no harm in that. And Mag and her friends had really been stellar, helping him along, introducing him to people, finding second-hand costume parts for him; it culminated with Mag making these ceremonial clothes for him. They were very well made, he had to admit. He could not recall having worn anything quite so well-made in the Middle Ages; he had never had enough time to accumulate that sort of wealth back then.

But there were downsides to this new lifestyle, too. Like the visitors and vendors at the events. Some time ago, this group had decided to go public, and he unfortunately only got in after the decision had been made. There was now a Ren Faire quality to the events, the fact that what was meant to be a diverting manner of hands-on education (or at least that was the vague idea he got) was somehow withering into an amusement park sort of entertainment at the edges.

And there was the matter of chivalry. It all revolved around chivalry. He did not have that much of a problem setting into the habits at first, because all the ladies in the group were nice, fun to be around and clever and the gentlemen were very much the same; but he found it hard to keep his knightly demeanour about some of the visitors. Besides, he had never been such a huge fan of chivalry to begin with. He was much more comfortable with the modern practice (though not entirely the idea) of equality. It provided him an easier approach to life that unified and surpassed all the incongruous approaches of the past, his past. He thought chivalry to be way too limiting in that respect.

And as well-made and, admittedly, comfortable his new clothes were, he felt very self-conscious in them. The coat of arms that came from his sword really had nothing to do with him. The sword was a modern creation, a design by a Spanish manufacturer; he had made it decades ago as a functional prototype for them and then kept it as his fighting sword. It was, in a way, one of a kind, sturdier and much better weighted than those that followed it in production, truly made for fight instead of display; but it was a modern sword nonetheless, a romantic vision. The coat of arms was purely arbitrary. So was the name the re-enactors gave him, derived in some mysterious way from his surname – why did everyone have to have a different name here anyway? Methos was used to switching identities, but this was crazy, bordering on schizophrenic, even for him. Why should Adam Daniels suddenly become Lord Peridan for a day or two? And it was not quite like acting either. They meant it.

What particularly made him feel self-conscious about his doublet was the fact that he could not conceal a dagger in it. Not without Mag knowing, anyway, and as cool as she had been about his sword, this was something he did not want her to know.

The fact that Joe and MacLeod enjoyed this turn of events in his life immensely and came to every event he had been to so far did not help matters very much.

Nor did that affair of knighting he was facing now. There were very few people he trusted with a sword at his neck. Only one, really, and it was not the "king" of the Seacouver area, nice chap that he was.

Oh well. Better face it now. He should not keep Joe and Mag waiting. No matter that he wished for the ground to open and swallow him up (but not permanently, thank you very much); he could not let his friends down, now that he did have friends.

And so he drew aside the flap of his tent and stepped out.

Into a forest.

At first he just stared. Then he blinked. Then he stared some more.

Then he turned around to go back inside, only to find out the tent was gone. He was not very surprised now to see that he was surrounded by forest.

Almost. He saw that where the tent's central pole had been, an old-fashioned, 19th century gas streetlamp was standing now.

That was when he swore. He swore heavily and for a very long time. He went from Sumerian, through a number of other ancient Middle East languages, ancient Greek (three dialects mixed indiscriminately), Etruscan, Vulgar Latin, medieval French, Old English and medieval Lithuanian to the modern English he had been using most recently, and he threw some Navajo, Finnish, and Slovak into the mix for a good measure.

The streetlamp was still standing there, blinking serenely at him in the middle of a forest, in full daylight.

He swore in Gaelic, thinking fondly of the Highlander and wondering whether he'd ever see him again. That took the edge off his oath, but it still sounded good; Gaelic was an expressive language.

So were the others, which was why he had used them in the first place after all. He felt slightly better for having expressed himself.

The classic rule of thumb for the situations when you got lost in a forest was to find a body of water, preferably running water which you could follow into populated places. There were bound to be some sooner or later somewhere near water; what he was worried about were the cases when it was later. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there. After what Mac had told him about his brush with alternate realities, Methos suspected he could be absolutely anywhere. Or any time.

It took him almost an hour before he found a stream, and after that hour Mag's beautiful doublet was a bit worse for wear, smudged and scratched by low-hanging branches. Still, getting lost in a forest was not half as bad as getting lost in a desert. Dehydration and heatstroke counted among the less pleasant causes of death. But then, so did death by wild animals, did it not?

Death by sword and arrow and bullet was far more preferable - in terms of expediency -, unless the sword cut off your head.

Because that was definitely a sound of hoofs he was hearing now from the wood he had come from, above the stream. It did not sound like running deer. And those were definitely shouts. Shouts in English. At least he spoke the language and could explain himself – if only he knew the explanation.

"He went here!"

"Follow!"

That, admittedly, did not sound very reassuring.

He briefly considered running away, but one thing he had learned very well during his time as a Horseman – one of the things he had learned back then and found fates or Providence or God pursuing him with later on - was that pedestrians did not stand a chance in a race with horses.

Or, as the case may be, centaurs.

When the creature emerged from the forest he bit his lower lip, in a move substituting the pinching of the back of his hand. He did not dare pinch the back of his hand: the centaur was aiming an arrow at him. He did not have to say "don't move." That was self-explanatory.

They stared at each other for a while and each seemed surprised and confused by the other's appearance.

Okay, Methos, so this is an alternate reality with centaurs. Which means it can quite possibly also be an alternate reality with unicorns and gryphons – mighty handy for you to carry them around on your chest, is it not? - Calm down. Observe and record. - The centaur had a chestnut horse's body, and his face was graced by a matching copper-coloured beard; he possessed a wild yet classic sort of beauty. But the thing Methos was really transfixed by was the bow and arrow. Centaurs were bad enough, but centaurs aiming at him really pushed it, and made calming down just a bit more difficult.

This is the point where explanations are in line. First rule of thumb in such situations: lie as little as possible. Lies are easy to catch; half truths less so. The complete and utter truth will probably not serve you well here, though. He's going to ask you who you are. The complete and utter truth rarely works. You're Adam Daniels, student of history.

"Who are you, son of Adam?" the centaur asked.

Oh, dash it. So much for the name Adam.

"My name is Peridan," he said, clutching to the chronologically nearest of his names that did not involve Adam. So Lord Peridan it is; how would a Lord Peridan behave in such a situation?

More people appeared, streaming out of the forest to the clearing at the brook. He noticed, with relief, that some of them were humans on horses. The others crushed that relief almost immediately, though. There were two more centaurs; two fauns and five dwarfs on ponies. And animals other than the horses, seemingly larger-than-life, walking on hind legs and carrying bows and crossbows just like everyone else in the group. Three bears. Two leopards. What appeared to be a beaver. _Beaver?!_

"I mean no harm," Methos said. "I became lost."

"So it appears," the centaur said and lowered the arrow. Not enough for Methos' comfort; now it was just aimed at his bowels instead of his chest. Still, it was a move suggesting more trust on the centaur's side, and he appreciated that. "What are you doing here in Narnia? I have not seen you before. Sons of Adam still count low in our land."

Methos shrugged. Again, a half truth. Neither "I don't know," nor "What do you think it looks like? I'm just trying to find my way out of these gorram woods!" did seem like a good idea. Whatever and wherever Narnia was, this seemed to be a company that would not appreciate that sort of language. He was Peridan; so he'd stick to Peridan's story.

"I was on my way to the king," he said, thinking frantically how to go on. But he did not have to. One of the riders came forth – a dark-haired boy of about twelve years of age.

"Then you are not lost after all, Peridan, for you have found me," he said. "I am King Edmund."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Houppelande: a medieval coat-dress (actually worn by both men and women). It ate quite a lot of fabric, so it was obviously worn by people of higher status.  
> Oh, and apparently by the sixth season of Highlander, neither Duncan nor Joe is living in Seacouver anymore. Enter the AU. I like the Seacouver setting too much to let go of it; even though it does not play a large role in this story, it kind of explains the whole re-enacting weird-out Methos is experiencing, and that does play a role.  
> I do not speak French, so kindly let me know if Lady Marguerite's name is wrong. It would not have the same ring to it if there were no "de"...  
> Also: my headcanon Edmund is dark-haired, which has nothing to do with the films and everything with the illustrations of the first Czech edition; unlike Pauline Baynes, Renáta Fučíková got the girls' hair-colours right (and Caspian's wrong).  
> See what I meant about too many author notes?


	2. In which our hero meets the king

**Chapter 2**

**In which our hero meets the king**

 

Edmund eyed the man in front of him curiously. Was he one of the old Narnian nobles that they had invited into Narnia? Well, old was not fit to apply here (but then, nor did it apply to most of the people who had come). He seemed barely three years Peter's senior. He bore himself with dignity that suggested noble birth, as far as Edmund could tell (this matter of nobility and royalty and what not was still rather confusing in a country where no humans had lived until very recently – and more so for someone who was only just learning how to treat his own royalty). But something about the man suggested humble background as well. The doublet he was wearing was very well-made and quite rich, his sword seemed to be a beautiful and quality piece of work and the smaller dagger or knife at his other side, though simpler in execution, was no doubt also a prized possession for its bearer. But the fact that he was wearing no cloak or luggage, in spite of travelling, together with the nearly worn-out state of his boots spoke of very limited means.

It was really the man's face Edmund's gaze was drawn to. It was rather reminiscent of something he recalled from his previous life, in the other world. A marble bust he had seen in a large country house. Somebody revered for his mind. As he was considering the man, he could, in turn, see the man considering him. It was slightly unnerving, but when all was said and done, he could not but respect the stranger.

"My life is in your hands, Your Majesty," the man called Peridan finally said. "I am a foreigner to Narnia. I can only assure you I mean no harm to its people, unless they mean harm to me, and that I hope to be welcomed to it in peace, as I am willing to settle into it in peace. But all I can offer you is the service of my sword."

Edmund liked that speech a lot. Together with his siblings, he had listened to many applications for a place in the renewed Narnia – accepted most of them, too – but this man's speech featured a rare combination of blunt straightforwardness and intelligence. The simple, unadorned words spoke volumes of hope and determination.

"You can also offer me the service of your mind," Edmund said. "I am beginning to believe it is just as worthy as your sword, if not more. I would say more."

Peridan smiled then and Edmund was sold on him before he knew it.

"I value my sword highly," Peridan said, drawing said sword from its scabbard. "But I value my mind more." He offered the sword to Edmund, hilt first. Edmund took it. It was indeed a beautiful weapon, with a smooth and clearly very sharp (and regularly sharpened) blade of steel; a single-handed grip woven with a golden cloth, already worn through at some places. The hilt was gilded, a single green jewel in the pommel; the guard was engraved with a crest identical to the one on Peridan's doublet. There was a unicorn and a gryphon on the coat of arms. It was for the first time in two years that Edmund found himself truly thankful for the heraldic studies forced on him by his centaur tutor. Both of these heraldic creatures signified strength, power; but the unicorn also suggested purity and virtue and the gryphon spoke of intelligence and vigilance. And as he looked at the lions guarding the coat of arms on the sword, he decided to consider the crest a sign.

* * *

He blamed the re-enacting society. He definitely wanted to settle into Narnia in peace, at least until he could find out how to get back. But had he had to offer his services to King Edmund so immediately, then? Had he not mentioned the king – a completely different king, but they had no way of knowing – he could have gotten out of this without committing himself. It was a hazard; an offer almost as dangerous as his offer to Mac after his fight with Kalas, the offer of his head, had been. Back then, he had not expected to live through it; yet he had. So maybe yes, maybe sometimes he had to hang all his hopes and fears on the wind. Clutch to the irrational, do what his survival instinct screamed at him not to do.

It seemed to have worked out in his favour so far. Right, so this was a hunting party, comprised mostly of scary individuals: as a first impression of Narnia, that did not fare very well for him; but there was the matter of the beaver. And he was beginning to really like this boy king, although he had also felt panicked about him at first. A boy king seemed like the last thing he needed on his plate, whether he was Methos, Adam Daniels or, dash it, Lord Peridan. But he was beginning to like the boy, he was beginning to like the king, and he was beginning to like his identity of Peridan as well. The boy was smart, not just well-spoken but truly smart. The king was gracious. And Peridan seemed to be working really well off that. He was clearly a very young knight, still searching for his place in the world (that worked well for Methos in present situation, too), but already formed in other ways. Of course he would have some of Methos' characteristics; most, probably.

The boy – king – Edmund – was looking at his sword curiously for a while. Then he returned it to him.

"Take back your sword; I will only retain its service," he said. "Or at least I wish to; whether you can stay in Narnia does not depend just on me, but has to be decided by my brother the High King and my two sisters as well."

Oh, and here I thought I'd won already, Methos thought. Wait a minute, so there is a High King and two sisters – two more queens probably? Now _that_ is weird.

But he realised he could not let his surprise show – they clearly considered him to be someone from their world who knew whom he was talking to. Mag's clothes must have helped in that respect – he could see the people were wearing very similar medieval-style clothes, so he fit right in. Unfortunately, their assumption also landed him on the edge of a deep pit, _having_ to behave like someone out of their world. A world he knew absolutely nothing about.

Oh well. He had always been good at adapting. He had been a Watcher for over ten years. He could do this.

* * *

Peridan seemed a bit crestfallen when Edmund mentioned his siblings; but he accepted it in a stride, without further comment.

That was another reason why Edmund found himself liking the man. Most humans he had met in this world so far seemed completely flabbergasted by the relations between the four monarchs – namely, the fact that the queens were the kings' equals, the fact that they all ruled together. Edmund had come to understand that in the neighbouring countries, women were usually not viewed as fit to rule. If, occasionally, a woman acquired power, she had to prove herself even stronger than a man would have to be (maybe that was part of why the Witch had been so cruel, although he was fairly sure it had been ingrained in her nature). The two young queens of Narnia were neither their brothers' inferiors, nor did they have to prove themselves in any special way. Most people could not refrain from commenting upon it – by politely wondering or by a slip of tongue (the two least courteous about it were among the few refused applicants). Peridan did neither. He was probably wondering as well, but he kept quiet. Good. The man was wise.

"Let us go back to Cair Paravel," Edmund said. "Peridan's case should be decided as soon as possible. Lord Garvan, please, give him your spare horse."

Garvan, an older noble that had come from Archenland, obliged; but as he pressed the mare's reins into the young man's hand, he could not help himself and shot a remark at Peridan:

"I hope you can ride a horse, boy; you look like you did not have much chance of practice in your life."

Garvan came from a large estate with many horses. He was a younger son, which was why he had found it easier to leave his home and move to his ancestral lands in Narnia with his own family. But he still retained a strong connection to his old home, unfortunately including the tendency to look down his nose on people with littler means than his family had.

Peridan still did not say anything; he only shot Garvan a particularly nasty look (one of those the words "if looks could kill" are usually used in connection to) and swung into the horse's saddle in a swift, efficient and quite elegant move.

"That's a start," Garvan said, unperturbed.

Edmund could not blame Peridan for the nasty look; being called "boy" by Garvan must have had something to do with it. Peridan was young, but by all rights, he sure was already a man. And something about the way he mounted the horse and sat in the saddle suggested to Edmund that he may know more about horses and riding than Garvan himself.

Edmund decided to leave Peridan be; Thunderbolt would no doubt try to learn more about him, so there was no need for Edmund to pry. For now.

* * *

They followed the stream down to a river and then rode on its left bank southeast, a long file of riders with a centaur and a leopard on the front as well as in the rear. Methos rode towards the rear, too: a newcomer without a definitive status. He found himself accompanied by the third centaur – actually, the first, who probably still did not quite trust him and wanted to keep an eye on him. Or perhaps he just wanted to know more about him. Either way, it made him feel uncomfortable; a centaur was hardly a creature you could treat lightly, especially not this one. Methos could almost feel a sharp mind evaluating him. That was beginning to form into an unnerving precedent.

"So you come with us after all," the centaur remarked.

"I certainly did not hope for such a quick solution," Methos retorted.

The centaur smiled slightly.

"The king has made up his mind," he said.

"You have not."

"I will not question the king," the centaur said with purpose in his voice.

"Even though he is a boy?"

"Would you question him?" the centaur asked, sharply.

"Not really," Methos said, and realised it was true. The king may be a boy, but he behaved like a king should. Like many kings did not, too. He would not question this king, or at least, he'd probably question the king much less than he questioned MacLeod, and that meant a lot (though, admittedly, he also simply questioned MacLeod a lot).

"I will not question the king," the centaur repeated, "for his judgment is good. And if he welcomed you, Peridan, you are welcome to me, too. My name is Thunderbolt."

"It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Thunderbolt," Methos said, and inclined his head. Thunderbolt nodded in acceptance.

This was, somehow, a place where you could say a sentence like that and people would take it at face value. It was the sort of place Methos the Deceiver should avoid at all costs, and often found himself irrevocably drawn to. Like the re-enacting society. Like Duncan's and Joe's friendship...

At least it wasn't his own fault this time.

"You have already met Lord Garvan," Thunderbolt said. "To the left of the king rides Lord Tol of Stormness Vast."

While Garvan was somewhat stocky and had a reddish hair and beard, Tol was slim, smooth-shaven, dark-haired – though not nearly as dark-haired as the king or MacLeod. Garvan had an air of effortless and somewhat reckless luxury about him; Tol was meticulously neat. King Edmund between them looked surprisingly impressive in his slight height; he was something in between them in his appearance as well, possessed of an easy, comfortable neatness that suggested a methodical yet creative and flexible mind. Out of the three, the king actually seemed best accommodated to a hunting party.

"Lord Tol is an advisor to the kings and queens," Thunderbolt added to his introductions.

In other words, someone to watch out for and hold in respect.

"And you, Thunderbolt?" Methos asked. He wondered about the exact mechanics of this strange society – were the creatures servants to the human Lords? Thunderbolt did not claim to be a Lord, yet he seemed to be someone with a higher status in the company as well.

"I come from Stormness Vast myself," Thunderbolt said. "I am their Majesties' tutor, and archivalist."

"Oh, good," Methos blurted out, before Peridan checked him in. "I like a good archive myself." Another of Methos' characteristics Peridan would share, then.

It turned out to have been the perfect deflective tactic: Thunderbolt forgot that he had – Methos had no doubt of that – wanted to find out where Peridan was from, and before they knew it, they were immersed deep in a conversation about the best archival systems and the best methods for preserving documents. Methos had to restrain himself from sharing some of the more recent and telling anecdotes, though (pity, that; he loved recounting the 1950s blunder of the Dead Sea scrolls and sticky tape). Thunderbolt showed no such restraint; he was clearly a passionate debater. Methos played along, feigning ignorance more often than truthfulness would allow, noting useful techniques (some were new to him; Watchers would have loved to have magic at their disposal). Thunderbolt unreservedly scoffed at some of his suggestions (some were good; some were red herrings).

In their debate, they both forgot to check their pace, Methos did not rein in his mare's liveliness too much, and they ended up right behind the King and the two nobles in the end. Methos noticed – he was used to keep his surroundings in check; Thunderbolt apparently did not, because when, about an hour later, Garvan turned around and said: "Lion's Mane, give it a rest at last!" - he nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise, forcing both Garvan and Tol into laughter.

"You'll bore Peridan to death," Tol said.

"Quite the contrary," Methos dismissed the suggestion.

"From listening to you, one would think that is a pen-sharpener at your side," Tol said.

"Do you mean this?" Methos laid his hand on his knife. "It can be used for many purposes."

Quill-sharpening was not one it was best suited to, though; it was too big. He actually would have preferred a sparring dagger. But he always liked to be prepared, and because he could not conceal anything in his doublet, he had used a more multi-purpose knife on the re-enacting event, even though it meant lessened sparring capabilities (which hurt his pride a bit, although he still could have beat them all without much effort, had he wanted). Now, he was rather glad that he had this particular knife and not the dagger.

"All I care about is whether the hand can actually carry out those purposes," Tol said. "It seems it only knows how to wield a pen."

"Pen can be a dangerous weapon," Methos said.

"It sure can," the King entered the conversation suddenly. "Words can be dangerous; words can twist reality."

He sounded as if he were recalling something. He sounded like a man with more experience than his twelve years of age accounted for. Maybe that was what being King did for you.

And then, just as suddenly, he shook himself out of his thoughts, pointed forwards to a widening glade at the river where another stream ran into it, and said:

"It is getting dark. We will break camp there."

Yes; Methos did like the King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nobles invited into Narnia: first instance of fanon. Very logical fanon. There's quite a lot of stories dealing with this theme, if only in passing, which makes it difficult for me to pinpoint where I first encountered it. I find it intriguing, in part because I live in a country with a long "tradition" of emigration and re-immigration...
> 
> The dynamics between the four monarchs and other people's reactions to them: another instance of fanon. I wish I could remember where I lifted the idea from, because I am fairly sure it was a single story. If anyone knows who first came up with it, please, please, let me know! I certainly do not wish to steal other people's ideas. It was an interesting one, and I thought it could be an area where Methos' equalitarian approach to women would serve him well.
> 
> The matter of the beaver: Methos is, of course, counting on the herbivorous-ness of beavers here. The Beavers in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe are very anthropomorphised and not really herbivores. That stands in contrast to the other books, where Lewis showed the Beasts with much more faithfulness to their biology, so to say (and not just the Beasts; I've always loved the explanation of the centaurs' breakfast in The Silver Chair). I like the later approach much more, but I'll try and find some middle ground here.


	3. In which our hero learns about the Witch and the Lion

**Chapter 3**

**In which our hero learns about the Witch and the Lion**

 

They dismounted in the glade and each member of the party immediately applied himself to a task. Some of the humans – servants, no doubt – unsaddled the horses and started handling the bags and provisions; Thunderbolt was overseeing them. The fauns, another of the centaurs and four of the humans began pitching two tents, apparently one for King Edmund and one for the other two lords. Some of the leopards and the bears threw themselves down to sleep almost immediately, while the rest flanked the place, together with the third centaur and the remaining humans. Methos duly noted that not entirely satisfactory fact: they were guarding the camp. It could be just common precaution (which he always approved of), but it could also mean that this world was not entirely safe even for the King's party, and that made him nervous. What could be here to warrant such measures from beasts of prey such as these?

Methos saw the beaver and the dwarfs disappearing into the surrounding forest; he assumed they went to gather wood. Not all of the dwarfs went, though: one of the five remained behind, with the people who took care of the horses. Methos, who had been left hanging and started unsaddling and treating his mare himself, realised that this one dwarf had ridden separate from the rest the whole journey. As far as he could tell through the jungle of black hair and beard on his face, he was fairly young. He also looked uncommonly sour. When Methos asked him, in his most polite tones, for the curry-comb, the dwarf practically threw it at him.

"What is the matter?" Methos asked.

The dwarf only grumbled something; it sounded suspiciously like "mind your own business."

Methos was not averse to minding his own business, but right now his own business was learning as much about this world and these people as possible, so he pressed on:

"It's the others, isn't it?" And indicated the way the other dwarfs had left. "Do they avoid you, or do you avoid them?"

"They have their reasons," the dwarf said, affirming the former.

"People always have reasons," Methos waxed philosophical. "Do you have reasons to wallow in your misery? If they're the same as their reasons to avoid you, it's probably wrong, you know."

The dwarf's beard moved; Methos assumed it to be a smirk. The dwarf kept quiet for a while, but he looked slightly less sour, at least as much as Methos could tell in between grooming the mare.

"You're good," the dwarf remarked suddenly.

"What?" Methos blurted out, confused.

"With the horse. You know how to treat her."

"Oh, that," Methos understood. "Good" was not a word customarily applied to him as it were, but here it made sense.

Taking care of the horses had been Silas' area of work, one that Methos had liked to share with him from time to time – something Kronos and Caspian, despite all the proclamations of brotherhood, had never quite understood. It was now his self-imposed atonement for Silas. Taking care of horses whenever he had the chance (which was not often). It was something he had gotten from Silas. A part of Silas he had received with his Quickening and carried in himself. It required penance; but it was not something he would discuss with anyone. It was easier just to do it.

"I travelled with horsemen once," he said. "I knew someone who knew more about horses than about humans. I got the knowledge from him."

"I work for King Edmund, take care of his horses," the dwarf explained. "I only treated reindeers before."

"That must be very different," Methos said, quickly recollecting all he knew about reindeers. It was not much. It more or less boiled down to a Saami film MacLeod had dragged him to once, image of a huge herd moving across a plain, image of people on sleds and ski. He had always preferred milder and warmer climates and South Finland was about as far as he had ever got.

"It is an honour," the dwarf said curtly.

"What is your name, by the way?" Methos asked.

"Thornbut," the dwarf said.

"I'm Peridan," Methos said, offering his hand to him.

"I heard," Thornbut said, and accepted the hand.

Methos gave Thornbut more of his knowledge of horses than he had given Thunderbolt of his knowledge of archives. It was an instant conspiracy of the outsiders. He decided, without much thinking, to arm this fellow with some useful knowledge. As the young knight he pretended to be, he could not do much by way of life wisdom (he'd deny having much of it, anyway), but something the dwarf could use in his line of work, something Methos had given him enough reason for possessing, worked wonders in lifting Thornbut's mood. And that, in turn, lifted Methos' mood. (He'd deny that, too.)

The other dwarfs, when they returned with armfuls of firewood, thus found them immersed in a detailed conversation. They eyed them rather suspiciously. When Methos bade good bye to Thornbut for the moment, intending to have a quick wash in the river before dinner (hygienic habits died hard, even though it did not make much difference for Methos's Immortal constitution), the leader of the dwarfs stopped him halfway there to give him a piece of his mind.

"You should not talk with Thornbut so much, Peridan," he said.

"Why not?" Peridan asked him, a bit more sharply than he would have done before the conversation with Thornbut had turned to be so satisfying.

"He worked for the Witch," the dwarf said, as if that explained everything. It probably did for him. Methos inwardly cursed the people's assumption that he knew what was going on. And then he thought: but he works for King Edmund now, does he not?

He said so.

That, miracle of miracles, made the dwarf somewhat antsy.

"The King accepted Thornbut's service, and he accepted mine," Methos said. "I see no reason why two such people could not have a civilised conversation together. Do you?"

The dwarf, apparently, did not.

Just to prove his point, Methos sat with Thornbut at dinner. Thunderbolt joined them at their fire, too, and several other people, like the two fauns; Methos began to understand that the dwarfs' aversion to Thornbut was not entirely universal.

Dinner was some roast fowl, smothered in herbs, with bread, cheese and berries, and wine or water, depending on what you preferred. Methos would have preferred beer; he went with wine and water. Before they started eating, though, Thunderbolt said something that could not be mistaken for anything but graces, although Methos did not know at whom the thanks were directed. During the prayer, he looked to the ground and more or less pretended not to be there.

He ate with relish; he was already quite hungry and the food was good. The best he had had in a long time; he felt like an old man, ridiculously so, when he kept thinking "this is what it tasted like when I was young." He would not be able to say when that had been, because he suspected he had never had anything quite so good to eat when he had been _really_ young, but the food tasted just like that all the same: it was precisely what food should be. Maybe it was the lack of any artificial additives; he could not help but think there was more to it. He did not stick to his food and his silent musings about it for long, though; he had too much else on his mind.

"The Witch," he said in the middle of the dinner, with purposeful tactlessness. Thornbut immediately began to look like his name incarnate again. Methos, now intent on learning what on earth was this all about, ignored his dirty looks and continued:

"Just what really happened?"

From the way the other dwarf had warned him about Thornbut's connection to the Witch, it was clear to him that everyone knew who she was. Or had been. But Peridan came from far away. He had a right to only having heard rumours, did he not?

"For one thing," Thunderbolt said, "it was really Aslan who defeated the Witch."

"Aslan?" Methos asked, confused; and then he was overcome by feelings that made even less sense. It brought forward something very similar to what the food had, a feeling of _just right_. Directly in its tracks followed dread, dread the likes of which he had not felt in a long time, more than just fearing for his life. He felt awe, like he had felt when he had sat with Alexa above the Grand Canyon, awe of something older, deeper, more substantial than him. He suddenly remembered what it was like to be young again, to look forward to living and not just cling to it: to wake up in the morning and breathe in the fresh air and think of nothing else. He felt it all at once, and none of it seemed to have any connection at all to that single word, which resembled the word for lion in some Turkic languages. It did not quite add up with the English used by everyone around, and it certainly did not explain why it should evoke all those feelings.

"Lion's Mane, he's one of _those_ ," one of the fauns whispered and rolled his eyes at his ignorance.

"Aslan," Thunderbolt said, "is the one true King of Narnia, son of the Emperor Behind the Sea. He comes from over the Eastern Sea."

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the East, and Methos thanked him inwardly for that bit of geography.

"A lion?" he asked uncertainly, walking on very thin ice now.

" _The_ Lion," the faun said.

"It was the Lion who defeated the White Witch," Thunderbolt nodded, repeating the information he had started out with. "It was Him who brought Spring back after the hundred years, it was Him who broke the Witch's claim on us on the Stone Table – stop flinching, Octavus, it is a fact we all know," he admonished that same faun, and went on, "and it was Him who finally killed the Witch in the battle at Beruna."

Methos nodded, committing it all to his memory and wondering what it all signified. It was getting more and more complicated. Thankfully, once you got Thunderbolt going, it apparently took some effort for him to stop.

"Not that the kings would not have played their part as well," he said. "King Peter is a mighty warrior, and he was one even two years ago. Without King Edmund's intervention, the Witch would have probably turned us all into stone. He shattered her wand. But it was Aslan who decided the battle with His comeback. Without Him, the four thrones on Cair Paravel would still be empty, and Narnia would still be covered with snow."

"And we would still be cowering in fear of the Witch," Thornbut murmured.

"Well," Methos conceded, "I would hate to be turned to stone myself."

"Some people risked that," the other faun said. "Most of us just sat and tried to stay out of trouble, though. Not all of us have the courage of Thunderbolt here, or Mr Beaver over there."

"Isn't that the way it always is?" Methos asked, thinking of all the oppressive regimes he had ever run into.

"Very probably," Thunderbolt nodded. "For some of us, the memory of Aslan, of the times before the White Witch had taken over Narnia, the tradition passed down was strong enough for us to wish to bring it back. But we hardly could on our own... Some realised that, and began to think it would never come again. Some simply did not know any better. Some..."

"Some actually thought they were better off with the Witch," Thornbut said. "Like my father."

"Ouch," Methos said, and Thornbut smiled.

Thornbut _smiled_.

"My mother didn't think so, and I was caught in the middle," he explained. "Then the Witch turned mom into stone, and... well, I really began to hate her then. The Witch, I mean."

Methos did not know quite how to react to that piece of news about Thornbut's family.

"Aslan came not long after that," Thornbut said. "And He was... He was magnificent. He turned the whole castle upside down, and brought mom back, and, well... it was quite easy to decide where I wanted to be after that."

"And them?" Methos indicated the other dwarfs.

"They had their little resistance cell," Thornbut said. "All against the Witch, and hating us who worked in her castle maybe even more. They think I got off the hook too easily. Maybe I did."

Thunderbolt shook his head.

"We all did," he said. "And them above all, in a way. They only came to Aslan's camp after the battle."

"And Thunderbolt should know; he was there," the faun who was not Octavus smirked.

It suggested another story, but this time Thunderbolt was not willing to share.

"Aslan and the kings and queens accepted them, like they accepted anybody else," he said. "That should be the end of it."

"Except they do not see it that way," Thornbut said, again quite bitterly. "And lots of others, too. Mr Tumnus is getting the short end of the stick as well. But less than me, because he's Queen Lucy's friend."

He rose and began collecting the few dishes that had been used during their dinner, and he made more noise handling them than was absolutely necessary. Thunderbolt watched him with a mixture of pity and disapproval in his eyes; then he rose, too, and said:

"I still have to go to King Edmund. You are not the only one asking for information, Peridan. Good night."

Methos was not very surprised; Thunderbolt had been keeping an eye on him while the King had stayed back. He only made a mental note to find out the last Queen's name as inconspicuously and as soon as possible.

"Well, now you should know that Aslan is not the demon some say He is," the second faun said, rising as well. "But then, I suppose you did have an inkling of that, if you went to Narnia, right?"

 

* * *

Methos found himself a mossy spot further away from the water. The ground was perfectly dry there, and as he did not have anything by way of sleeping mat, the soft, dense, inch-thick carpet of bright green moss fit the bill. It was rather a rumply mattress, even compared to the dormitory bed he had been sleeping in recently, and he had nothing to cover himself with either. Still, the summer night was fairly warm and he had a velvet doublet on; it would do in present circumstances.

He looked up at the stars, and realised, with a little shock, that they were of course not those of his world. The majestic dome of dark blue with millions of blinking bright dots and the ethereal curtain of light hanging among them was the same, but the stars were scattered in a completely different pattern. A feeling of longing overcame him again. The stars were brighter, the darkness deeper than in Seacouver or Paris nights. The sky was just as unreachable: even if you'd go into the space, it would only step that much further back and open new depths before you. He was not sure whether he wished to reach the stars, missed the Seacouver lights, or whether he so desperately desired something else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saami (Sami, Sámi) = Lapp, just in case you did not know. On the off chance you wanted to know, the film I had in mind was The Kautokeino Rebellion (Kautokeino-opprøret). Which, with the never mentioned background timeline I've worked out for this, is actually a bit of an anachronism, by a few years, but since said background timeline never really enters into this story, that piece of info is completely irrelevant anyway. I just enjoy sharing random trivia.
> 
> English in Narnia and Aslan's name: The usage of English is best discussed in Babel by Elizabeth Culmer and her and her readers' thoughts on that (comments on Livejournal). I love me a linguistic fic, and like other fans, I see Methos as quite a bit of a (predominantly practical) linguist (although, just between us, Peter Wingfield's Russian pronunciation - namely accent - in Timeless is quite atrocious). I'm quite sure the sheer number of African languages makes even his head reel, but I'm also convinced there is not much he does not know by way of languages in the Middle East area, and he'd notice such things.
> 
> The Witch and those who had served her: I had seen stories dealing with Mr Tumnus' plight. At the time of writing this chapter, I had not seen stories about the dwarfs. Which does not mean they are not there (I've run into some since then), it just means my mind was a clean slate in this respect, and thus Thornbut could march in with his morose jungle of black hair and beard and demand his story be written. I obey.  
> Lewis' dwarfs tend to be morally somewhat grey (as much as anyone can be with Aslan in the game), to have mixed loyalties, to choose the stronger side and to look out for themselves above all. Sound familiar?  
> Unlike our hero, though, they also tend to hate their own kin on the other side of the fence.


	4. In which our hero proves himself

**Chapter 4**

**In which our hero proves himself**

Some people say that the first dream you dream in a new place is going to come true.

Methos knew that superstition. It dated from time immemorial; he had encountered it, with variations, in many cultures and countries. He had slept in many new places during his long life and dreamt many a dream. He rarely remembered them, and from those he did remember, none had come true (with the exception of one particularly vivid and disturbing dream in which he had fallen from a tall wall while fighting someone he had not wanted to kill for some reason. But then, that one had come true about four hundred years later; he was not sure whether that still counted.) He had used to pay attention to dreams and would have invariably woken up confused or scared; lately, he had learned to ascribe it all to his subconsciousness. (After about five thousand years and innumerable Quickenings, that had to be one tangled mess of a subconsciousness, which went a long way to explain some of the more outlandish ones.)

He would never be able to make sense of his first dream in Narnia. It involved ships at sea, horses, dwarfs, a raven and a lion. But he was yanked out of it before it could form any sort of sensible story.

Snorting and neighing, hoofs beating down. Cries. Gnarls. Running feet. The metal clank of swords being drawn.

Methos grabbed his own sword and jumped up even before he was fully awake. His eyes flew wide open and he took in the situation quickly: from the riverside, a mass of huge, grey, fanged creatures with glowing yellow eyes was streaming into their camp. Wolves? Too huge, too _weird_. The whole camp was in a state of general confusion and uproar; people were springing up from where they had slept, reaching for swords, groping about for their bows and arrows. King Edmund had already run out from his tent, sword drawn, trying to fight the attackers off; next to him was Thunderbolt, bow at the ready. Garvan and Tol emerged now. On the upper side of the glade, nearer to him, the horses were rearing up, trying to tear away in fear, adding to the overall confusion. People were being jumped, limbs were being torn. Someone had already fallen: there was a large body lying in a huddle at the river, probably the centaur guard.

The attacking creatures were not very organised and the Narnians were catching on quickly, but they had still clearly caught them by surprise and there were already too many of the assailants in the camp. He'd get wounded; he did not like the prospect.

* * *

Edmund and Thunderbolt forgot themselves in conversation; it did not only concern Peridan, but also all the other people they had met with during this expedition. Peridan's arrival and plea had changed Edmund's plans and they were leaving Lantern Waste earlier than they had originally intended. The king and his mentor had thus many issues to discuss and remained awake long after the rest of the camp had fallen asleep. Suddenly, they heard a cry from the direction of the river, and quiet growls. They grabbed their weapons and ran out from the tent. The centaur Dawnbreak, who had been guarding the camp at the riverbank, was falling to the ground, two dark wolf-like bodies on his back. Others were crossing the river; before Edmund and Thunderbolt could raise alarm, at least ten of them were out of the water and in the glade.

Thunderbolt shot first. Edmund followed suit by attacking the foremost of the werewolves, both king and centaur shouting at the others to wake up. More werewolves were coming. There were almost as many of them as in their own party, the largest group Edmund had seen since the battle at Beruna. He had heard rumours, but no one had known anything specific, no attacks had taken place. They must have been gathering their forces, lying low and waiting for the perfect opportunity. He knew they were bent on killing him, on having their revenge for their mistress; he did not intend to sell his life cheaply.

His own people were waking up quickly; none of the werewolves managed to catch anyone in their sleep, but they still managed to jump some people unprepared. Edmund did all his best to defend those who were still reaching for their arms. He had felled two of the werewolves already; now he was going at a third. He caught sight of Lord Garvan and Lord Tol running out of their tent and at once engaging two of the attackers. The dwarfs were already shooting crossbow darts at several of the werewolves. The darts were too small to kill them, unless you managed to hit the eye, but if they shot them with a sufficient amount in just the right places, it slowed them down enough for someone else to finish them off. Thornbut, unable to reach his own crossbow because a werewolf was in his path, drew a knife from his boot and slashed at its snout - rather foolishly, because that offered his arm to the creature's fangs; but he got away with it. Edmund kicked the crossbow closer to him. At the edge of the camp, Peridan had jumped up, sword in his hand.

The young man's subsequent behaviour was not what Edmund had expected. He ran to where the horses were tied and prancing about. He grabbed and loosed the reins of the gray of Lord Garvan's he had ridden the day before and swung onto her back, regardless of the fact that she was not saddled. Edmund noticed the distraught, scared look in his eyes. Was he running away?

And then, Peridan spurred his horse into the middle of the mêlée in the camp. Immediately, he caught the attention of two of the werewolves, which conveniently freed Tol and Garvan to deal with two others. The rider transformed before their very eyes. Garvan would never again doubt his riding prowess; Tol would never again question his skill with a sword. Rider and horse seemed like one: the way Peridan led the mare and moved on her back, the way he fought was almost reminiscent of a centaur. He made full use of the horse's range of movement and the reach it lent him with his sword. At moments – quite a lot of moments – Edmund expected him to fall off the horse's back during his daring moves, but he always pulled himself and the mare back into balance. He beheaded his two assailants almost immediately; then he danced his horse between others, stabbing here, slashing there, jumping over bodies, felling others like clover heads. It was actually quite scary. Edmund had been training with a sword since the moment he had arrived to Aslan's camp two years before and he had been in several battles since then (the first had been the worst). He had seen many warriors at work, his own brother not the least among them, but this man was better than anyone else. Better, more effective, dealing out the sharp edge of his sword as if he and his sword were one, just like he seemed to be one with his horse.

Whoever Peridan was, he was certainly a force to reckon with.

And when the last attacker fell under his sword, he stopped his horse, slid down from its back and leaned against it with a heavy sigh, as if the effortless way he had battled had taken all his effort.

"Do not forget to clean your sword, sir Peridan," Edmund told him. He had counted twelve werewolves falling under the man's sword: a dozen heads he had cut off. He had, single-handedly, killed about half of the attacking force.

Peridan glanced at him with a hollow look in his eyes; but he crouched and cleaned the blood on his sword away with a handful of grass.

"My brother always reminds me of that," Edmund explained, as he did the same.

"Your brother sounds like my friend," Peridan said, standing up again. Then, finally, the distant look in his eyes flashed into full recognition and he added, hastily: "I mean, I have a friend who is as diligent as that... who keeps reminding me to do things. Not that your brother..."

Edmund smiled. He could sense other people gathering around them, regarding Peridan with the same newfound respect, and he was glad for him.

"I hope he will be your friend, Peridan," he said and offered his hand to the young knight. "I believe you've saved all our lives here. You have fought valiantly."

"I could not have done that with a different horse," Peridan said simply, taking the offered hand.

"But how did you know?" Lord Garvan asked him in awe.

"Know what?" Lord Tol chimed in.

"Tira, the horse," Garvan explained. "She used to belong to a travelling company of entertainers, before they sold her to me. The way he moved with her – it was precisely the kind of manège they performed with her in their shows."

Peridan shrugged.

"It is the way she moves," he said. "I could tell she would be capable of it."

"I take it back, Peridan," Garvan said. "Please, forgive my folly. You are an excellent rider – such one I could never hope to be."

A smile crept onto Peridan's lips and he stretched his hand towards Garvan.

"There is nothing to forgive. I do not look like much; I like it that way and hone the look of not much." That drew a few laughs.

Garvan accepted the hand and shook it enthusiastically.

"Can we be friends?" he asked.

Peridan shrugged noncommittally.

"If you can promise never to call me 'boy' again," he said.

* * *

The centaur was not dead after all: Thunderbolt was treating him now, and he was slowly but surely getting up again. Apparently, they had jumped him and bitten him in the back just like wolves in Methos' world did with deer, but the centaur's different biology had saved him; he had only fainted from loss of blood. That was, definitely, good news.

The sight of the creatures was still not. People were already taking care of the dead bodies, dragging them to a gorge in the forest. Octavus was treating the other wounded. Methos, in the meantime, led the mare to the river and washed the gore from her coat; he could not bring himself to touch the dead bodies and was not sure just how much of his knowledge of healing he should reveal. King Edmund crouched next to him, washing himself. Methos finished with the mare, now trying to dry her up.

"Were they... werewolves?" he ventured.

"Yes," the King nodded. "We had heard rumours of a group in this area, but no one knew there were this many. It is difficult to keep trace of them: they look much like humans normally, but they can turn into wolf-form at will."

That was different from the way werewolves were usually described in his world, and more bad news. They could not rely on lunar phases here. It was true that in the stories of the Baltic area, people sometimes could turn into a wolf at their whimsy, but then those werewolves were usually not viewed as necessarily evil. He had a hard time seeing these monsters he had fought as anything but. They had not been hunting, as wolves would; they had been attacking a sleeping enemy camp. As far as tactics went, he would easily approve of that; but something about the variety and the prevailing (if not entirely universal) supportive spirit in said camp, as opposed to the grey fanged mass and uncontrolled malice of the werewolves, convinced him how matters stood here.

"They used to serve the White Witch," King Edmund confirmed his suspicions. "There were many in her army. Those who had escaped are still hiding in the wilder areas of our dominion, and wage a continuous war against us; although we had thought them already subdued."

"I've never seen their like before," Methos said, still processing the idea.

"I have only encountered them in Narnia myself," the King said. "Where I come from, they are only stories."

Methos nodded, numbly; and then he realised the importance of what the king had just said. He was not Narnian in origin? Come to think of it, why would a child of all people become king after a tyrant has been overthrown? One who had ruled for a hundred years if what Thunderbolt had said was to be believed; the centaur did seem very truthful. It was not entirely a case of an heir to a previous dynasty if Edmund was ruling with his brother and sisters... but who knew what the customs were like here. It was not like the medieval feudal model would be the only possible one – although the human part of the populace he had encountered so far did seem very medievally feudal. He still did not know why the humans were lords and the others not, either. There was something rather incongruous going on here, with Tol and Garvan being somewhat aloof of the creatures as well as their human servants, and the king being – well, he was very dignified, but he did not keep his distance from anyone in any obvious way. He had helped with the fires and food, Methos recalled now. It could be his age; it could be something else. Children and teenagers were, after all, often the fiercest proponents of "class" divisions.

And there was still the matter of Aslan.

Simply asking the king would be easiest but, unfortunately, also quite impertinent.

"For one who had not encountered such creatures before, you fought outstandingly," the king added. Methos was surprised out of his thoughts by that remark, actually even flinched; he had, in a way, already forgotten all about the fight.

"I did not have much choice in the matter," he said. "Run, be run over, run them over."

Edmund laughed, and did not mention it anymore, instead approaching the wounded centaur, who was now finally back on all four (waitaminute, it was not "all" four), and asking after his state of health. King Edmund, Methos thought, might have an understanding for a man who kills because he'd rather not be killed himself.

He found Thunderbolt at his side instead, again. Methos hoped he would not be subjected to another round of praise, and to his relief, he was not. They washed together, Methos squatting down at the water, Thunderbolt stooping into it almost like a camel.

"The king is not from Narnia?" Methos asked quietly, hoping he was not revealing too much of himself now.

"No," Thunderbolt said. "There were no humans in Narnia until recently; the Witch saw to that. She did not want the prophecy to be fulfilled, of course. The prophecy about the four thrones of Cair Paravel," he added, realising that Peridan did not know as much as native Narnians.

" _When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone_

_Sits at Cair Paravel in throne,_

_The evil time will be over and done,"_ he recited. "I told you, Sons of Adam still count low in our land. Not even the Witch was human, although she would have liked us to think so."

Methos shook his head, water spattering around.

"I'm afraid this will take some getting used to," he said. "No offense meant."

"None taken," Thunderbolt said. "Humans took some getting used to for us, too."

* * *

He had thought falling asleep again would be difficult, after everything that had happened and everything he had learned. But he fell asleep almost immediately, and slept soundly, without any other interruptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, does anybody else know this superstition, aside from this Czech girl whose teachers used that on her and her classmates on invariably dreary ski courses? – But it seems to me like the kind of thing that could spring up in various cultures, in different versions, like Jacob's dream when he is on the run, the dreams in which one would determine one's totem/life-path, and so on and so forth. There also seems to be something similar going on in The Lord of the Rings with Frodo's dream in Tom Bombadil's house. I'm toying here with the idea that maybe in Narnia this would be similar to what's happening to Frodo.
> 
> The verses Thunderbolt is quoting are, of course, Lewis' own, taken from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I do not own them. I do not own the book. I kind of wish I owned the (first) Czech translation, though; but that one is owned by someone else, too.


	5. In which our hero arrives to the castle

**Chapter 5**

**In which our hero arrives to the castle**

 

Methos woke up the next morning feeling all crampy and rather cold, too. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and did some exercises, to get the cricks in his body out and warm up as well as to simply keep in shape. (Ever since he had met MacLeod and been dragged to so many unwelcome adventures, he had had to really keep up his physique again. It had even been fun to spar and exercise with Duncan and goad on each other; it wasn't very enjoyable to do it alone just because he had to.) But he did not practise with his sword – he was still loathe to show his possible weaknesses as well as his strengths in front of strangers, and besides, he had had enough of that in the night.

They rode slowly that day, making many stops on account of their wounded, particularly the centaur. (His name was, as Methos learned, Dawnbreak. Centaurs seemed to have composite names tied to the natural world – the third one was called Riverglen.) The landscape slowly opened and the forests gave way to hilly meadows. The road, originally following the stony riverbank, turned into a beaten path with summer-yellowed grass, dappled with flowers, on both sides. Poppy red, cornflower blue, bright yellow dandelions, white daisies, the purple of corncockle, and many others Methos could not recognise at a glance. The river was now rolling slowly further to the right, its banks and water graced by bowing willow trees, gently murmuring alders and elder bushes in full sweet-scented bloom. Crickets were chirping everywhere around them and it all somehow made Methos feel very lazy. That had also something to do with the weather: the sun was shining persistently. But there was a light breeze blowing as well, pushing tattered white clouds on the high blue skies. Still, he was soon hot in his velvet and began to envy the centaurs and fauns their bare chests. Although maybe they were not so better off with their coats of fur elsewhere on their bodies.

Occasionally, Methos could now see small settlements scattered throughout the landscape, usually solitary farms enclosed by little copses and fields, and he pondered his luck in meeting the hunting party – he would have certainly run into civilisation later rather than sooner had he followed the creek and the river downstream on his own. (Although he would not have died of hunger in either case, because the forests were teeming with berries.) Narnia did not seem to be very densely populated – but then, some of its populace was very unusual and would probably also have very unusual dwellings. Several of those buildings he saw did look rather out of the ordinary – very often too small for humans. Beavers, he recalled, lived in mounds of twigs at rivers, or some such. Did Narnian beavers build those? Did they build dams? And bears and leopards – those did not build anything in his world. Were there other Beasts like them? Talking Beasts? Or even talking _Crickets,_ maybe?

After meeting the centaur and after having seen the Beasts carry weapons and walk on hind legs occasionally, even those who never got up in his world (though they all ran on all four when they travelled), he had not been _too_ shocked to hear them speak, but it was still strange. Like having fallen into a Beatrix Potter book, or something, except that those did not contain centaurs and fauns. Maybe like _The_ _Wind in the Willows_ – that one had Pan. When had he read that? The first time, it had been in translation, he recalled, and the title had not alluded to the episode with Pan. It had made the demi-god stand out all the more... But these fantastic Narnians were not demi-gods. They were simply _people_.

When he looked to the south, he could make out higher and higher mountains looming on the horizon. The highest, or one of the highest, barely to be discerned far away in the southwest, had a double peak: that could be a good orientation point if he ever got lost (more than he already was). He looked over the line of mountains and realised, with awe, that he had never seen any mountains quite like these. This world kept throwing surprises at him. He would not be able to tell whether it was an old or a new mountain range, geologically. It looked fresh, but not in any usual way. Like freshly painted. Like a cracked loaf of bread freshly taken out of the oven...

Okay, point delivered. Time to eat.

* * *

It took them two days to travel to Beruna from the camp where they had been attacked – slightly longer than usual, Edmund recalled. But it was a pleasant journey. They had food to spare (most of their catch from the hunts in Lantern Waste had gone to the locals anyway), the weather was nice and their wounded seemed to be on the mend, in spite of travelling.

In days like these, it was good to be a king of Narnia.

They stayed the night in Beruna, in the inn that seemed to have established itself in the village after his and his siblings' coronation. Beruna was always the place to stay whenever you went along the Great River – and great many people did travel along the river. Of course, there were really people behind the inn's establishment, a dwarf couple and their satyr friend. Many other people had helped to build the large house and some more were employed there now.

In the evening, at the large hearth in the inn's public room, the Narnians' minds turned to stories. Edmund, after some coaxing, told the story of his and his siblings' arrival to Narnia via the magic wardrobe. He told it in quite short form, because all his Narnian companions had heard it before. Only much later, when some of the people present had become rather tipsy and started pestering Peridan for a story, did Edmund realise that his and his siblings' origins must have been news for the young knight. But Peridan had listened attentively and did not interrupt the flow of his story – for which, frankly, Edmund was very grateful, because he had never been as good at storytelling as Lucy was.

Peridan, in the end, told a silly anecdote about a duck who wanted to buy bread in a pub. The moral of the story seemed to be to check the situation first if you were about to pester others.

* * *

The village – Beruna, Methos learned – lay at a ford which they were apparently going to cross the next day. It was probably also a marketplace; it certainly had a large central square. It was too rural to be called a town, with pastures and no surrounding walls, but certainly larger and more clustered than the settlements he had seen previously. The houses were mostly wooden, but there was also some brick and stone. The largest house was definitely the inn they were staying in, although it did not seem to be the sturdiest – it had the look of a rather hastily set up frame house. There was no building that would resemble a town hall; he wondered whether Beruna had any internal management. It was a bit difficult to imagine that all its diverse inhabitants would get along easily without some rules.

He was extremely glad to find out the whole party's expenses in the inn were covered by the king (well, maybe excluding the Lords' companies). He had nothing by way of money on his person – not even US dollars.

And he indeed listened attentively to the king's story. It answered some questions. How come these four (Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy) had become kings and queens? Apparently, in part because it fulfilled the prophecy and Aslan designated them to be kings and queens, and in part because they had ended up leading the Narnian opposition against the White Witch. Even if it was more complicated in Edmund's case... He really felt for him, knowing full well what it was like to betray someone close to you. He wondered how the king could tell the story so calmly; Methos had not learned to speak of what had happened with the Four Horsemen yet. He was also amazed by the ease the Narnians accepted the story.

It posed some even more curious questions for him, too. How come these particular four had been the people to become the kings and queens? Why, if this world did have humans, did it have to be these four who had come from a different world – his world, from the sound of it? Why bring people from a different world? Why – why him?

Edmund had said it had been Aslan's will for them. That was all right for a king to say; but Methos could not settle for a royal explanation, because he was not royalty. He was just a guy who had become lost, and right now, in this warm room, with good food and good drink (they had beer! and excellent beer at that), he was still really annoyed. He had been in this country for more than two days now and he had absolutely no clue what he was doing here. MacLeod had gotten a spirit guide in the form of the late Hugh Fitzcairn in his alternate reality experience. _Of course_ the Highlander would get a guide, and _of course_ Methos would be left hanging. That was the way things were with the Highlander. He was a special case who got special treatment; even Methos himself could not help but treat him differently than most people...

And he really did not know why on earth would _he_ need to be taught a lesson, either. It was certainly not the same lesson Duncan had received, because Methos had no intention whatsoever of depriving the world of his presence. Besides, this did not seem to be the same kind of alternate reality. For all he knew, he had been transported into a different world, and that was it. Edmund and his siblings had been here for two years now. He might as well get used to the idea; but he did not like the idea very much.

Not that he would not like Narnia, all in all. But he had omitted to have his origin in the other world known; now he was not sure he could, anymore. How would he explain to a kid from mid-20th century Britain – because he began to understand as much about Edmund's roots, what with his accent and what with being sent to the country because of a war – how would he explain his medieval attire and weapons? It would take too much detail, and one of the things you were not supposed to do was to tell people from your past about their future, right? So he'd have to be from the Middle Ages. He did not feel like pretending to be from a similar period twice. Easier to stick to one pretention. Peridan, from somewhere West. Trying to find his place in Narnia – because he was doing that anyway.

And even with the beautiful landscape and the excellent beer, he missed the other world too much. Which probably explained why he told Joe's favourite silly joke about a duck in a bar when asked for a story.

* * *

It was a warm late June afternoon and Lucy was spending it in what constituted one of her favourite parts of Cair Paravel now: the herb garden, with its surrounding shady archways and sprawling lawns. Both Susan and Peter had found excuse to take their work there as well. It was truly the best place for such a day: aside from providing equal amounts of sun and shade to suit anyone's needs, it also offered a good view of Narnia towards the west, a direction they often looked now that Edmund had gone to the Lantern woods.

And good thing they did, too, because it was that day that Edmund's party returned. They emerged from the small forest at the riverside, a line of Beasts and riders slowly making its way towards the castle; the glistening of sun on the harness, sword hilts and arrowheads could occasionally be seen even from that distance. All three siblings set down their work eventually and moved to the West Gate with the intention to meet Edmund's party halfway.

As they watched them approaching, they counted the people. It was an automatic mental check they always did, though rarely spoke of, in these still dangerous times. Thankfully, they usually arrived at the number they expected to arrive at. This time, they did not: Lord Garvan's spare horse was carrying an additional rider.

"There is someone new!" Lucy exclaimed excitedly and ran towards the hunting party to welcome them home and meet the new arrival. She liked meeting new people – humans, Talking Beasts, other creatures – it did not matter, as long as they carried interesting stories to tell and the promise of friendship.

This one was a young man, like many of those that had come in the last year or so. He had dark hair and brown eyes and looked at the world with a quiet curiosity and consideration she took an immediate liking to. As she approached him, he slipped down from Tira's back and bowed to her – not excessively low, but still with respect.

"Welcome to Cair Paravel, sir –" she said.

"Peridan, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly.

"Peridan," she repeated, liking the name just like she liked the man. He reminded her somewhat of Edmund, although she would be unable to say why. She welcomed her old friends and her brother after him. Edmund was smiling: of course, he knew how much she liked meeting new people.

"We met Peridan in the Lantern woods," Edmund said. "He offered me the service of his sword – and mind – in exchange for peaceful acceptation into Narnia. I thought we could give him a chance, and he jumped at the chance at the nearest occasion. We were attacked, Lu – we are all right, do not worry, and that is certainly also thanks to Peridan here. The service of his sword is a valuable thing indeed."

"Then you are twice welcome," she turned back to Peridan. "For wanting to settle in Narnia, which is dear to me, and for helping my brother."

He seemed strangely bemused by that.

"That was only natural," he said – murmured, really.

At that moment, Peter and Susan finally arrived; the horses were led away, which left the hunters and travellers free to converse. The introductions and explanations repeated – and so did the thanks. Peridan seemed more and more uncomfortable about it – he dealt with the introductions like a true knight, but the thanks seemed to make him very self-conscious. Peter and Susan caught onto his uneasiness as well and changed the topic to things more practical.

"Is this all you have on you?" Susan asked.

"As you see me, Your Majesty," he said, stretching out his arms and showing himself off in a rather self-mocking gesture. "Not even the horse is mine. I am not much of an asset to a royal court, I am afraid. I can do many things, though, and if you deem me fit to serve at the stables, or scrub the floors, I can do that."

Susan smiled.

"I do not think that will be necessary, sir Peridan," she said. "For now, I think, you will need a bath and a change of clothes. You can certainly get both at Cair Paravel."

"You shall be given a room," Peter said, "and please, come to the feasting hall for dinner afterwards. We can discuss what position you can take at our court then. I gather you do not come from a Narnian bloodline?"

"Not that I am aware of," Peridan said. "But Narnia seems like a welcoming place, and if I can make myself in any way useful to it, I will."

That was quite enough. Wanting to be useful was in the end more important than bloodlines.

"I will take you to your room," Lucy said excitedly; she wanted to learn more about this young man. "The one at the western wing, right?" she checked with her siblings, who all nodded; there was a room recently re-decorated that simply _needed_ to be occupied now. The others would no doubt want to discuss Edmund's mission in Lantern Waste; she could do with hearing the results in concise form later.

Peridan thanked her, and they set off at a leisurely pace towards the castle.

"So what do you think of Narnia so far?" she asked him.

"Would you be offended if I did not think much of it, Your Majesty?" he asked.

"Definitely," she said. "But I may still understand."

He smiled.

"You will not be," he said. "I like it. I admit it was a shock for me at first – Thunderbolt aiming an arrow at me had something to do with that, too – and you do have some nasty enemies..." he trailed off for a moment. "But I like it. I liked the company on the way here, and the landscape – oh, that is fabulous! The mountains at the south – I got just a glimpse of them, but what a beauty! I have never seen anything quite like them. And the water, the rivers and the sea here... It is so clear."

She beamed at him then. He seemed to like the same things about Narnia that she did, so far, and the way he spoke of it, the light in his eyes when he spoke of it, reminded her of her own wonder. Here was an admirer of nature, just like her.

"Is it not wonderful?" she said. "Oh, I do so hope you will be able to stay. But I think you will. Edmund likes you, and so do I, and I don't think Peter could refuse a knight like you. And I certainly do not think you would be forced to scrub the floors. Unless you would really like it," she winked at him.

"I must admit, I would not," he said. "Does anybody?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I guess not. Good question. I should try it some time, just to see whether I like it."

He laughed unreservedly; and then he stopped abruptly and said:

"I'm sorry; I meant no disrespect..."

"Oh dear, of course not," she assured him. His laughter was so refreshing to hear – she did not want him to stop. They entered the castle, and as they walked the corridors and stairs, she continued explaining matters to him:

"You have to show us proper respect as the kings and queens, of course, but that should not stand in the way of friendship. And I like you and would like you to be a friend. So if I say something funny, feel free to laugh – unless it is a serious matter, in which case you probably should not laugh."

"I will remember that," he said. "What am I supposed to do in awkward silences in cases of serious matters when somebody says something funny that does not match the occasion?"

Now it was her turn to laugh.

"Have I overstepped the boundaries of respect?" he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

"You have shown foresight, caution and consideration. No, you have not," she said. "Better ask now than do something inappropriate when the situation arises, I think."

"So I thought," he said.

"But, frankly, I do not know," she added. "The answer to that question, I mean."

"Try not to laugh so obviously that the person notices?" he suggested. She laughed again.

"That's as good an answer as any," she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be taking a liberty with elder bushes in bloom in late June... I mean, they certainly do bloom in late June in some places around here, but those are usually highlands...


	6. In which our hero enters the castle and is discussed

**Chapter 6**

**In which our hero enters the castle and is discussed**

 

As the rest of the royal party walked into the castle in Queen Lucy and Peridan's tracks, Lord Garvan described Peridan's fighting and riding skills in more detail and with much animation to those who had stayed at Cair Paravel. (He dedicated more attention to the riding, which, coming from him, was not a big surprise.)

"He must come from those interior plains in Western Telmar," he said. "Or at least must have spent some considerable time among the Western riders – they are still largely nomadic. I have never seen anyone but them – and some of the inhabitants of the Western Calormene provinces, perhaps – ride like him. He did it all without a saddle! I was really foolish to disbelieve his skills – but what was I to think of a knight who walks on foot?"

"My lord Garvan, it was a natural conclusion; but perhaps not one you should have worded aloud," King Edmund said.

"A great deal of difficulties can be avoided if thoughts are not worded aloud," Tol said. "But then, I did not fare much better. - If he can be trusted, he is far more of an asset than he would make us believe. I take it he comes from a good family, though not a Narnian one. A bad fortune has forced many a knight to a lesser status than his lineage speaks for – many a Narnian knight as well."

"Western Telmar, you say?" King Peter asked thoughtfully. "Those people's relation to the king of Telmar is rather tense, is it not? That would explain why he prefers to live in Narnia."

"Telmar likes mighty warriors, and demands warlike life," Thunderbolt said. "And while Peridan is a great warrior, can you imagine a man who 'likes a good archive' among the Telmarines? He would not find it a good place to live."

"It must have felt a godsend to find a country that is trying to live as peacefully as Narnia does," Queen Susan said.

* * *

It was getting curiouser and curiouser. He had never met a monarch quite like these four. They all behaved with royal dignity – even Lucy in her freely outspoken ways. But they were the kind of royals whose knowledge of their elevated position made them all the more sensitive to the plight of everyone else. And they were clearly a very loving royal family. Those were rare, precious traits: not so rare as to be completely new to him, but rare enough to give him an idea that these four were something else.

The castle was quite unique, too. He saw features he recalled from his own past – on the surface, it was certainly a medieval castle like any other – but the architecture and overall style was always a bit off; not in a bad way. There were features that would not be found in medieval buildings, construction techniques not known in the Middle Ages, as far as he could tell (he had to admit he was not exactly an expert on architecture). Some spots reminded him of other times, maybe Renaissance with its harmonious lightness, maybe Romanticism with its playfulness. All in all, it was its own style. The various aspects seemed to come together, not supersede one another like they did in his world. And as fantastic as it was, as this world was, it felt very real and deep-rooted. It all served a purpose, he thought. The decorations on the floors, walls and ceilings had a meaning, although it was one he could not quite grasp so far. He could see the image of lion time and again. Aslan. Whatever it really meant, whoever he really was, it was important to the people of this country, and therefore, perhaps, also to him.

He could tell the castle was quite old, perhaps as old as castles in his own world; at places, he could also see it had not been used for a long time before these four monarchs came to reside here. Still, those signs of disuse did not quite line up with the hundred years he had heard of, especially not a hundred years of winter. If documents could be preserved by magic, perhaps so could castles...

They met many inhabitants on their way to his room, because the western wing was apparently one where much activity was going on. Talking Beasts dominated the corridors; many of them were of the smaller variety and every time he heard them greet Queen Lucy in their peeping voices, with an amusing combination of cheerful friendship and polite respect, he flinched a bit; but he tried to keep himself in check. It was weird. _Very_ weird. But then, so was he, so was his kind; who was he to judge it?

The room he was assigned, situated on the second floor, was also beautifully built. It had a domed vault, decorated with stonework rosettes; the walls were half-covered with wooden panels and the floor was made of wooden tiles, no doubt to stop some of the cold of the stone. The walls had apparently been only recently whitewashed. There was a small table with a single chair under the window which offered good evening light (a fact the academic part of his nature noted with satisfaction). An upholstered bench that could double as a bed stood at one side, a heavy carved chest for clothes and other possessions in its feet. A small tub and a sink were crammed into the far corner, which could be hidden behind a curtain. There was no hearth, only an ironwork coal heater; the room was small enough.

It was very bare compared to all the comforts of the modern age, but he was fine with that. Even in the modern age, he often went for the barest minimum. The unpredictable lifestyle of an Immortal demanded that. Yes, he liked his comforts, his art and his books whenever he had the chance to accumulate them and he preferred to stay in comfortable and well-equipped places; but he knew when to let go and how to strip his lifestyle down to that of a drifter when necessary. So yes, this was perfectly fine with him.

It certainly beat being lost in a forest.

"Will this be fine?" Queen Lucy asked, as if catching onto his thoughts.

"Your Majesty, it is more than I could have hoped for," he said genuinely.

And so it was. He certainly had not hoped for such a warm welcome when Thunderbolt had aimed his arrow at him.

"Good!" she said. "I would tell you to settle in, except you do not have much to settle in with... I will send someone to bring you water, and clean clothes – I hope we'll have some clothes to fit you; you're taller than Peter... – and whatever else you may need. Do you have any wishes in particular?"

He considered the question. What would he need? Right now, bath, clothes, food and drink seemed to cover it. Oh, right... Bummer, how do you ask a queen about the location of toilets? He decided for the frontal approach that seemed to have worked with her so far, and asked her just that.

She laughed and showed him the in-built toilet in the outside wall of the room, hidden behind a panel door in the woodwork.

So he had just asked a queen a most impertinent question. But what a queen she was! Which other queen would bother showing a complete nobody to his new room, come to think of it? What a queen, indeed!

"Anything else?" she asked, laughter still dancing in her blue eyes.

"Anything to read?" he ventured.

"Oh!" She seemed a bit surprised, but also pleased. "What do you like to read?"

He shrugged.

"Just about anything, really," he said. "Perhaps some history or geography of Narnia for now? I would like to learn more of the country I have decided to make my home."

"You are a brave man, Peridan," she said thoughtfully. "To hang everything in your life onto such a wild hope... Why exactly?"

What was he supposed to say? He settled for "The alternative is unthinkable," even though it left a rather foul taste in his mouth. But it was true, was it not? The alternative of being shot like a trespasser, in this case, or siding up with the enemies of Narnia who did not seem like a very pleasant bunch (nor very efficient, for that matter). In some ways, it even beat being embroiled with a re-enacting group; here, at least, he played one role all the time, which he was used to. "So far, it seems far better to serve in Narnia than to... well... not really rule elsewhere," he added, to wash out the remaining foul taste.

"That may be a good way to put it," she said thoughtfully, and with that, she departed from the room, leaving him with a strange feeling that he had just had a brush with Immortality without the accompanying buzz.

* * *

King Peter's study had already been the scene of many a council. This time, the kings, Queen Susan and their advisors, Lord Tol, Thunderbolt and Mr Tumnus, were discussing the situation in Lantern Waste. As it used to be the Witch's home, it was one of the more turbulent parts of Narnia, but things were finally settling now. Mr Tumnus came from there and often visited home (though this time he had not, because he was helping a faun community south of Cair Paravel to establish a vineyard). He expressed his opinion that the group of werewolves King Edmund had fought must have been one of the last, if not the last one. That left the council free to talk about the peaceful work going on in the province, until Queen Lucy arrived.

"So what do you make of our guest, Lu?" Peter asked her when she settled in a chair. "Guessing by your smile, you like him."

"I do," she smiled even more. "He asked for books to read!"

"That is certainly a welcome trait in a knight," said Mr Tumnus, who liked books and did not like fighting.

"And it signifies an open mind willing to learn," Thunderbolt nodded. "Something I have already noticed about Peridan on our way here."

"He wants to know more of the history and geography of Narnia," Lucy said. "Thunderbolt, could you find something for him? It seems he chose to make Narnia his home on rumours alone. It sounds a bit foolish, but I like that, too. He said..." she smiled fondly, "he said that the alternative was unthinkable..."

"That can mean two things, though," Lord Tol interjected, before she could continue with Peridan's following words. "He is certainly an accomplished warrior; but he is also..."

"A killer," Edmund said. "Yes, I can see what you mean, Tol."

Tol smiled, a bit smugly. (It is difficult not to look smug when you are so meticulously clean and impeccably dressed.)

"But," Edmund continued, "I do not think that is the case here. Did you see the look in his eyes? Before he attacked all those werewolves, he was genuinely _scared_ – and yet he attacked them."

"I have not seen much of him yet, mind you," Peter said, "but he rather gives the impression of someone who wants to make his own life worthy."

"Yes," Susan said. "He would scrub the floors if that was what was asked of him."

The four rulers and Mr Tumnus laughed at that. Thunderbolt smirked; Tol frowned in thought.

"But seriously," Susan said, "I want to keep him around, if only to see what he is really like."

"But what if he only wants to learn more of Narnia?" Tol asked. "What if he asks for a place at this court, and for books to learn, to take that information to someone else who wants to know?"

"That is an important question," Peter said. "It is true that we do not really know who he is, and why he came to Narnia."

"He pledged himself to me. I do not think he would betray us," Edmund said.

"May I ask why not, Your Majesty?" Tol asked.

"Because I know," Edmund said seriously. "He does not have the look, if that makes sense. It is true that he takes everything in, and it is true that he is considering everything he takes in, but he is considering in a different way. Not as someone composing a message, rather as someone who thinks before acting."

"Good point, Ed," Peter said. "I would not be able to put it that way, but I know what you mean. As I said, he gives to me the impression of someone who wants to do his best."

"So you really want to give him a chance, Your Majesties?" Tol asked.

"I want to give everyone a chance to do their best," Edmund said. "Seeing as I got it."

At that, Tol gaped a bit, in quite an undignified way that would shame him if he could see himself.

"I think it's what I am supposed to do," Edmund added, quickly. "It is no virtue of my own, but it is all the more reason to consider everyone the same way..."

"It is what Aslan would want from us," Thunderbolt said.

"Yes."

"If it is true that Peridan can read and write well, he could be our scribe for the time being," Susan suggested, again successfully avoiding a touchy issue by drawing attention to things practical. "Thunderbolt could dedicate more of his time to his other duties in that case."

"I could certainly make use of more time, Your Majesty," the centaur lowered his head in agreement.

"That is a good idea, Susan," Peter said. "We will ask him at dinner whether he would accept the position. For all his talk about scrubbing the floors, he _is_ a knight and may not find it a worthy one."

"I am sure he will," Lucy said. "You see, he said – he said it seemed to him better to serve here than to _not really rule elsewhere_. I think he already knows that standing above others is no easy job..."

* * *

Lucy was right, as she often was. When Peter posed the question to Peridan at dinner, the young man's face lit up with genuine joy.

"That would be perfect," he said. "Yes, of course I can read and write. In fact, I like that kind of work – much more than I would like scrubbing the floors, I admit."

That seemed to be turning into a running joke.

"So I can write records, or compare records if that is what you need, and write letters, or whatever. Yes, I will do that. Thank you."

"You will work under Thunderbolt's guidance, before you learn enough to work on your own," Peter said. Peridan nodded.

"We will require the service of your mind on everyday basis, then," Edmund said, "but the offer of your sword you have made to me is still held valid as well. You may be called to arms at any time, Peridan."

Peridan nodded gravely.

"We will provide you with anything you would need," Susan assured him. "Clothes and food and rooms to live; and armour and horse if the occasion calls for it."

Peridan nodded again. What went unspoken was the fact that the clothes and perhaps also the armour would probably take some time: he was now wearing a centaur's winter tunic that was a bit too loose and short for him.

"Your Majesties, may I say something to that?" Lord Garvan interjected suddenly.

"Of course," Peter said.

"I think you do not have to provide Peridan with a horse," Garvan said, a bit hastily, but with a firm purpose in his voice. "I think he has already found himself just the horse he needs, and I will gladly give her to him. Peridan, from now on, Tira is yours and only yours, including the harness of course."

Edmund and Peter had suspected the gesture, but Peridan apparently had not. He gaped at Garvan for a little while, and then he thanked him in a rather shocked and shaken voice.

"I could never ride her as well as you do, my friend," Garvan said. "It is only natural."

Peridan smiled widely then and kept smiling for the rest of the dinner.

* * *

Tazzik, the leader of the Black Dwarf hunters, spent dinner time with the leader of the Red Dwarf smiths, who went under the _nomen omen_ of Smithkin. To say that they dined together would be quite a stretch, because Smithkin kept fiddling with various objects on the table, most of which were connected to his work, and if he gave his food half his mind, it was too much. Even Tazzik only ate in between speaking.

"With all due respect to Their Majesties," he said, "they are simply accepting _anyone_. That Thornbut and others who served _her_ , and now all these strangers! This last one isn't even Narnian. It's a wonder no one has cut their throats in their sleep yet. This Peridan – he's Telmarine, and you know how those Telmarines are. A bloodthirsty rabble, the lot of them. You should have seen him – he's a killer, _she_ had nothing on _him!_ I tell you, they've let a snake into the house. Sided up with Thornbut immediately. You know what they say: birds of a feather flock together. But they don't see it. Shouldn't they have punished all the collaborators by now? That had to be the first thing to do, and then there would be enough for all good people and no need to invite workers from who knows where. I say, Smithkin, would _you_ let a complete stranger into your workshop? I bet not."

"Sorry, what?" asked Smithkin, with his mouth full of a large bite from the sandwich he was holding in his left hand; his right was occupied by scribbling over his technical drawings with a pencil.

"Were you even listening?" Tazzik asked crossly.

"I stopped at 'all due respect'," Smithkin said, and started ticking off items on his To Do list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smithkin's name was inspired by Ilona Royce Smithkin, a red-headed artist I came to know of via the blog Advanced Style... Tazzik is kind of a cross between Fezzik from Princess Bride (who he's nothing like) and the word "kazik", which is really "cacique", comes from the Taino language and means something like "chief", or nowadays also someone who exerts power somewhat dubiously, apparently. But it first came to my attention via the writings of Alberto Vojtěch Frič who spelled it "kazik" and used it in the original meaning.


	7. In which our hero learns more about Narnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point during the original posting, there was some reader concern about language that raised some important points about my reasoning on language in Narnia, and language in general, and so here goes a version of that.  
> There is a point about the Pevensies' speech made even in the book - that by the end of their reign, they spoke differently and did not remember their life in our world. Both me and that reader agree that at this point, they're still only just learning and still remember. The reader was concerned about Methos' occasional language slip-ups, thinking that being thrown into a medieval-style world would throw him back linguistically as well (theoretically a very valid point), which he does not seem to be.  
> And the answer to that is no, he's not. They're all speaking English, which is a language the modern variety of Methos has been speaking for a considerable time now. He would not be thrown back to Middle Ages linguistically, because the variety of English spoken then was in some ways a different language (depending on the dialect, it could be _very_ incomprehensible for a modern reader), and it does not seem to be the variety widely spoken in Narnia, for all its occasional archaic characteristics (if it were, the readers would not understand). In fact, most ordinary people in Narnia do not speak that high end dialect used by the aristocracy.  
>  Moreover, before Methos entered Narnia, he had spent what was probably months (considering he made it as far as to be knighted) in a society with the same sort of modern-to-old-timey schizophrenia going on... He's certainly slipping more often than he would care to admit, as you'll hopefully see in this chapter. :-)

**Chapter 7**

**In which our hero learns more about Narnia**

 

The history of Narnia Thunderbolt got for him was a relatively small printed volume. So they knew the printing press around here; yet they still required scribes. That was not so very surprising, though: printing press was quite an old invention (depending on where you looked, of course); typewriters were a much more modern one. The book was illustrated with what were probably woodcuts, hand-tinted. Aside from offering an insight into printing techniques in Narnia, the text itself was also very information-filled. It was apparently meant for children and thus written relatively concisely and to the point, although it still seemed to count on a reader who already knew some things. Methos was still not sure what to make of much of the information, but there were things he was truly intrigued about, and things that explained some strange features of the Narnian world to him.

Aslan really seemed to be some sort of deity, a creator figure (but one that still intervened in events: Narnia was not deistic; it made him vaguely uneasy). The book started with an account of the creation of Narnia (and its world), which seemed strangely reminiscent of Milton's account in _Paradise Lost_ , or some myths Methos recalled: apparently, the creatures of Narnia had been born of the earth. Or brought forth from the earth; the book was not quite clear on that particular point. It was quite clear on the point that a few days or weeks after the creation of Narnia, the land had been _very_ fertile and whatever you had planted into it would grow fully in a few hours, and that was where the toffee tree came from, "as Fledge recollected."

Methos did not know who Fledge had been and the idea of growing a toffee tree seemed utterly ridiculous yet fairly intriguing to him. There were possibilities there; although the time for them was conveniently gone, as matters often stood with myths. But where on earth had the toffee come from?!

He got his answer when he turned the page, and what an answer it was.

_As everyone in Narnia should know, Narnia is the land of the Talking Beasts and beings of nature, yet it is also a country ruled by sons of Adam and daughters of Eve; that is as Aslan has decreed it in the very beginning. The Lion's exact reasons for this are as mysterious as His reasons for the creation itself; but the universally agreed view is that thus all creatures of Narnia are equal and none can consider their own kind more worthy than the others. For who could claim himself above his fellow in creation?_

_The lot of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve is surely to be respected, but not to be envied. For they have been taken from their own world, called by Aslan Himself; the first pair of Narnia's rulers: King Frank and Queen Helen, the father and mother of many generations of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve in our world. So bear in mind, even though they are destined to rule, they are also destined to serve, and every lord or lady worthy of that name remembers that._

So that was it. Adam was Adam, Eve was Eve, here as there – the first man and the first woman, the one and only. Humans came from his world. His reality?

_King Frank and Queen Helen, history tells us, were not the only son of Adam and daughter of Eve present at the creation of Narnia. There were also the Lord Diggory and the Lady Polly, friends of Fledge the Winged, father of all winged horses._

If Methos had doubted the truthfulness of the account (and he had had his doubts), he did not any longer. There was no way someone would make up those two names as part of a creation myth. This was too ridiculous not to be real. He did not know how come it was real, but his own experience gave him an idea.

_But with them, an ancient evil came into Narnia as well, the witch Jadis of the north. Jadis is said to have hated Aslan from the first. She ate an Apple of Life in order to gain never-ending life and wage a war against Narnia and its King. But it came with a price: she could never come close to a tree of Life again; and so Lord Diggory, on Aslan's command, planted another Apple, which grew into the Tree of Protection in the Lantern Waste._

Never-ending life, Methos thought bitterly. Yet she was gone now, was she not? Someone must have taken her head. Wait a minute, so was this an origin story for Immortals? Were there Immortals in this world? He fervently hoped not. Had Jadis come from his world? The account suggested it, yet Thunderbolt had said she had not been human. Had she been an Immortal to begin with, after all? He now truly, fully realised, feeling his heart sink, that if his Immortality was revealed, he would probably be considered someone akin to the hated Witch. Oh well. Nothing new under the sun. Or suns, for that matter.

The text went on and on; it gave him an explanation of the strange occurrence of a streetlamp in the woods as well – that, too, dated back to the days of fertility of old. It did not explain how come cast iron could grow; it was simply the magic of Narnia, the power of the Lion. He did not understand how iron could grow, himself, but if the streetlamp – Lantern, as they called it here – was in some inexplicable way at least part organic, it kind of explained why it had not rusted over the thousand or so years since the creation of Narnia. There was a remark in handwriting (probably Thunderbolt's) explaining that fact somewhere in the book – that the Witch had been defeated in the year 1000. Very handy for historians, was it not?

If the local historians had their facts straight, Narnia's was a young world. It was a strange feeling, knowing he was older than the world he found himself in. It was even younger than Amanda. Only Mac's lifetime would fit into this world's history, and Joe's, of course.

The memory sent shivers down his spine; he had been gone for over four days now. Mac must be out of his mind with worry by now. And Joe would do the best he could to calm him down, while silently worrying himself out of his mind as well. And Mag. Gods, what must Mag be thinking? All the re-enactors, in trouble because one of them had mysteriously disappeared. A thousand years of history was nothing compared to four days filled with such agony. And unless something magical happened again...

No use in dwelling on that. He missed them, simple as that, and he regretted their pain; but he was quite sure it was not his fault (something Duncan would no doubt have more trouble accepting if it happened to him). He could only do as much, and right now, the only thing he could do was to find his footing in this world, and then, perhaps, find out what exactly had happened to him, why and how, and how to get back if at all possible. But that was simply not something he could do immediately; it required time. He'd apologise to them if he got back. If he did not... If he did not, he'd remember them for the rest of his life, however long it would be.

* * *

Methos had read long into the night – burning a large portion of the candle in his room – so when he was woken the next morning by a young faun servant who brought him fresh water for washing, he felt rather worse for wear. Immortals still needed their sleep. He had to quickly remind himself to "put his young face on." Both Duncan and Amanda had told him that his age showed the most when he was woken from sleep prematurely. It made sense to him. Those were the moments when he felt it the most – certainly not the same way mortals did, but still. Jumbled thoughts often threw him way back.

"Good morning, sir," the faun said. "Here's some water for you –," – putting down the jug – "– and Master Thunderbolt says you should come to his office for breakfast and instruction."

"So I will," Methos said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and suppressing the urge to say "Okay." Modern age must have rubbed off on him more than he had thought. "Where exactly is Master Thunderbolt's office, may I ask?" And suppressing the urge to say "Why do I have to be woken at this ungodly hour?" No wonder he felt so sleepy: it was barely daylight outside. No more late night reading sessions for him, it seemed, unless he wanted to put up with this awful morning feeling all the time. He did not particularly want to; but he realised that if he wanted to learn more about this world and not to look too out of place here, he would probably have to read up on it very, very quickly. And cut on his sleep considerably for a while. He hoped they had coffee in Narnia.

"Oh, it is down at the back door," the faun said. "Down the corridor, down the stairs to the ground floor and straight forward; you cannot miss it."

At the back door. Rather a strange location for the office of someone as important as Thunderbolt apparently was; but then, he was a centaur, and probably wanted an easy access in and out the castle, which made a more "central" location less desirable for him.

Methos thanked the faun, trying to gently suggest he should leave; but the boy – he truly was only a boy – lingered.

"Is it true that you killed most of the werewolves?" he asked finally. "Cutting off their heads?"

"Yes?" Methos replied, uncertain where the question was leading.

"Is that the way to kill werewolves?" the boy said. "Is it true that they will heal from any other wound?"

"I don't know," Methos said. "I can only say, in my own experience, cutting off somebody's head is usually a sure way to kill them. Now, why are you asking? And what is your name, for that matter?"

Here it was again. Creatures that heal from just about anything equalling creatures of darkness, creatures to fear. And if he was frank with himself, he could not blame people for thinking so. Someone with his past had no right to claim there was no ground to that fear.

"Arminius," the faun said. "My name is Arminius. And I ask... well, my father was killed by a werewolf. I was wondering..."

"If it could have been prevented from happening?" Methos asked, more softly than he had felt originally.

"Well, yes, I suppose," Arminius said. "Perhaps, if knowing more about werewolves would help."

Methos smiled sadly.

"You cannot change the past," he said. "But you can still do something about the present and the future." He finally remembered to use the water Arminius had brought him and started washing his face.

Arminius accepted his explanation with surprising ease.

"You are right, I guess," he said slowly. "I could not have done anything. I did not have a sword, and even if I had, I would not know what to do with it."

"Now _that_ can be helped, I'm sure," Methos spluttered. "I mean, for the future."

Arminius beamed at him.

"Would you teach me how to use a sword?"

Methos considered it. It was not what he had intended – taking on a student, and such a foreign one at that – but this was a different world...

"If Master Thunderbolt leaves me any free time that I do not spend reading, it's a definite maybe," he said in the end. Arminius laughed.

"Right," he said. "I could not expect more. I have other duties myself. Thank you anyway, sir."

"Oh, call me Peridan," Methos said. He could not afford to be called "sir" as if he were anything more than Arminius – he was just as much of a servant as him, and putting on airs would not help him fit in in any way.

"I will... Peridan."

And with that, Arminius left.

Methos cursed himself inwardly; he had as good as promised him to teach him, and he knew nothing about him. This world kept throwing charity cases at him. Soon, he'd be like the Highlander. Picking up strays. But then, these people had taken _him_ in, knowing practically nothing about him. And _they_ had truly nasty enemies in this world, while he was new to it and probably starting completely afresh. Maybe he should let down his paranoia a bit for their sake.

He washed as much of himself as he dared to in a rush, threw on his new clothes and old boots, slung his sword back into its sheath on his belt and ran off to find Thunderbolt's office.

* * *

Thunderbolt was waiting in his office with breakfast for two on the small side table, one of the few surfaces free of documents, papers and parchments. He was wondering when, or whether, the new boy – man, always a man –, Peridan, would come. It was very early in the morning; Thunderbolt was used to waking early, but he did not know whether Peridan was. He suspected not, and wanted to see what would come of it. There was no use in employing the man if he could not perform under stress.

What came was a freshly washed, relatively cleanly dressed young knight, a bit short for breath. He stopped in the door, bowed slightly and said:

"Good morning, Master Thunderbolt. I am sorry if I am late. I had a conversation with Arminius and that's kept me."

So far, so good.

"Good morning, Peridan. Come in. You are not late. Just in time for breakfast."

Peridan walked to him. Thunderbolt motioned him to his stool and Peridan sat down, eyeing the food on the small table in front of them rather hungrily. Thunderbolt wondered what this young nobleman – for nobleman he was, though an indigent one – made of his sparse diet. But Peridan did not say anything, nor did he start eating. He waited.

Just right, too, because Thunderbolt always said his prayer of thanks to Aslan before he started eating. This time, he also added a plea for peace in Narnia; it was clearly not here yet.

"Amen," Peridan murmured when Thunderbolt finished.

"What did you say?" Thunderbolt asked in surprise.

Peridan looked very taken aback.

"Oh, just... seemed proper," he said, stumbling over his own words.

"In what way?" Thunderbolt asked. "Do you know what does it mean?"

"Something like... 'it is so'. Or 'so be it'," Peridan said.

"I see. Where did you learn this?"

That was the question. Thunderbolt knew the word; some old ones – old centaurs, and old Beasts with good memories, like Badgers – used it as a way to end their prayers. Some centaurs claimed it was a secret name of Aslan, while Badgers unanimously maintained it to simply be a way to end prayers, and to have come from King Frank and Queen Helen's world. In Thunderbolt's own experience so far, the Badgers tended to be right about these things; his own kind sometimes gave too much weight to rather tangential matters. In this particular case, Badgers, again, seemed to be correct, because it was the way the Kings and Queens ended their prayers as well, and said it was the way to end prayers. But whatever the word was, no one knew what it really meant.

"I... don't remember. Someone told me," Peridan said uncertainly. "Is it important?"

"Very important," Thunderbolt said firmly. "To me, to every scholar, to anyone who truly cares."

He proceeded to give Peridan a lecture of the word's history, because the young man obviously lacked Narnian education which he would sorely need, and the lecture developed into one on Narnian history, particularly Aslan's manifestations in the same. Peridan listened eagerly and asked apt questions, and the breakfast went on in a highly satisfying scholarly manner; before Thunderbolt remembered he had wanted to see what Peridan made of it, the food was all gone.

* * *

That had been a close call. Methos cursed himself inwardly, again, this time for not having owned up to his origins in the other world; now he really just could not back off anymore and had to keep up the pretence. It was difficult when his subconscious habits picked up who knows when kept throwing such surprises in his way. Fortunately, Thunderbolt seemed happy enough to provide him with a lecture instead of expecting an explanation from him; keeping up the pretence of a young man eager to learn (and just a smidge bored by the end of it, as was to be expected) was quite easy, because it was one he had gone through before. It was a good deal like a Sunday school, or at least what he imagined Sunday school was probably like. It also turned out to be a highly entertaining and captivating storytelling (even if Thunderbolt's tendency to formulate his sentences conscientiously made it a bit dry at times); by the end of it Methos realised that much of his attention had not been feigned at all. He was still rather scared by the prospect of a deity figure that could show up any time and give him a piece of its mind (the fact that Aslan had apparently killed the immortal Witch did not help). But he could not stop himself from liking the stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... You hopefully see now that I operate under the impression that much of Methos' survival skills have to do with sheer luck. Which he then shapes further to his benefit.
> 
> Quick edit: Oh, and I should write right here that the reference to _Paradise Lost_ is something Heliopause noticed in the books, not me.


	8. In which our hero learns about other lands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took long to figure out. The problem here was timeline problems related to what was going on in Archenland and Calormene. It would take too long to explain it all; suffice to say, I decided to have the Calormenes take some time to notice there was a new order in Narnia now, and moved the beginning of Rabadash's father's reign / Cor's kidnapping into the timeframe of my story (which I wanted to do originally, and it makes more sense this way). I probably will return to the timeline problems at a later date...

**Chapter 8**

**In which our hero learns about other lands**

 

When the breakfast was over (no coffee, but there was some kind of tea-like substance that did a decent job of reviving him), they "went to work." For now, Peridan would work in Thunderbolt's office, and only leave it if someone asked for a scribe. Methos soon realised that the job he had the day before so enthusiastically signed up for was basically the dreaded thankless job of a secretary. Thunderbolt started explaining to him the day-to-day proceedings of the court, showing him his filing system (still somewhat in progress, because he apparently kept re-organising it every now and then to see what worked best) and instructing him on what sorts of documents he could deal with and which were out of bounds for him, for now at least. He was not allowed to deal with any international treaties, not very surprisingly (the documents in question were apparently stored in a different place anyway), and some parts of the inner workings of Narnia, such as mining, were closed to him as well. Those documents were stacked at the very top of the shelves – very probably, Thunderbolt had operatively removed them there the day before, because there were other documents lying about in a state of – simply put, they were a mess. Methos' curiosity was piqued; Peridan, grudgingly but with growing respect, approved.

Thunderbolt also asked him to show his handwriting – something they really should have done yesterday. Methos quickly recalled one of his earlier, more elegant styles (he had, some thirty years before, happily gone on to the rather sloppy modern style of writing – it was so much faster and easier with the modern writing tools, but it would not do here with the quill and the officialdom). Even though the result was not exactly what he had in mind, Thunderbolt was satisfied and asked him, for the day, to re-write a stack of notes into nice documents for the archive and further use.

It turned out to actually be a number of something akin to business agreement proposals that King Edmund had arrived at during his recent visit in the Lantern Waste (it had not been just a hunting trip), and Methos found out that after all, a secretary job at the court of Cair Paravel might be more fun than a comparable job in his own world. In his own world the crown did not discuss dam-building proposals with Beavers and Naiads and Kingfishers, to begin with. Matters needed to be settled here as there, but the matters at hand differed considerably, and he was quite well amused and intrigued for the time being. It gave him more insight into the workings of this country, too. The various kinds of creatures apparently tended to act as compact lobbyist groups each with their own agenda: Beavers wanted to build dams because they preserved their food in standing waters; Naiads argued for free-flowing rivers; Kingfishers liked dams because fish stayed there, but demanded that certain banks suitable for homes were kept undisturbed. But there were individuals who did not quite fall in with others, which made matters even more complicated, but also somewhat more believable in Methos' eyes; complications and individuality were a real world kind of thing. Every decision pertaining to the Crown of Narnia as a whole was covered with King Peter's name, because he was the High King. But King Edmund was the Duke of Lantern Waste and pretty much a sovereign in the negotiations. At first, Methos had to ask Thunderbolt, several times, for the correct wording of certain decisions and phrasings: the centaur had not counted on an uninitiated scribe when he had written the notes and they were therefore sometimes very cryptic. But soon Methos got the hang of it; perhaps sooner than a real uninitiated young scribe would have.

When a bell ringing and Thunderbolt's prompt reminded him it was time to have their midday meal – which, apparently, they would go to have in a larger dining room – he had lost trace of time, and found himself very hungry to his own surprise. His wrists were rather aching from the long writing, but the pain quickly dissipated as soon as he laid down the quill: one of the niftier aspects to his Immortality.

In the dining room, they met a group of red-bearded Dwarfs who worked in the gardens and Methos learned more about food in Narnia. The human food had a touch of English cuisine to it, though with a tastier medieval court twist (Methos had not eaten so much roasted meat in a long time, having rather enjoyed Mediterranean-style vegetable cooking recently). Thunderbolt's preferences leaned heavily, not very surprisingly, towards cereals and plant material, which Methos was quite fine with. The Dwarfs were apparently very keen on mushrooms and eggs, preferably in combination, and as Methos helped himself to another pancake with mushroom sauce, he fondly remembered his days in Lithuania where mushrooms were so dearly loved.

After the meal, he went back to his stack of documents in Thunderbolt's study, but around three o'clock, he was called in to the High King's study, fetched by a Mouse of all people. The Mouse was much taller than any mouse he had ever seen – taller than any rat he had ever seen – but still very small, and being addressed by such a small being, in such a squeaky voice, was quite disconcerting. He packed his writing tools in a bit of a confused haze, somewhat dizzy from staring into the papers, and very nearly poured all the ink on himself.

As he walked the long corridors of the castle with the Beast, though, he realised it was just as self-conscious as him, if not more. Two young people who were not entirely sure what they were doing where they were, the pair of them. It was an amusing thought.

"What is your name?" he asked.

The Mouse looked up at him very shyly.

"Reetseep," it piped.

Right, and is that a he or a she?

"Look, Reetseep, I don't mean to intimidate you."

"You do not mean to... what?" Reetseep asked with a very confused look in its eyes.

"Errr... to scare you? Being all tall and everything, I mean."

Reetseep lit up a bit.

"It's really the way you talk, and write, and read, and all that," it said. "I cannot do any of those things. I've only just learned to talk a while back. Everything is so hard."

Oh dear, it's a child, Methos thought.

"My people want me to become so noble like the others," Reetseep added. "But I don't think I have it in me to be like you people. I can't even remember any of those big words."

It's a page, Methos corrected his surmise.

"Well, you do not have to be _in-ti-mi-da-ted_ by that," he said, repeating the big word in question carefully. "I'm older than you, and I just happen to have a good head for language." He quickly stopped himself from saying "languages", seeing that everyone spoke a single language here, apparently even in foreign countries since no one had expressed surprise at him speaking English as well. Even though Arminius' name was definitely Latin... There were some implications there, but he was not sure he wanted to venture into that territory right now.

"I'd wager you're really good at something, too," he added quickly for Reetseep's sake.

The Mouse did not seem entirely convinced. Methos was not sure he was convinced himself, but he could not be blamed for trying, could he?

They walked in silence for a time after that, until they arrived to the Eastern wing of the castle above the Great Hall and stopped at a very elaborately carved door, with a figure of a lion in the centre. There, Reetseep turned to him again and said simply:

"Thank you."

Then it rapped at the door – it must have been quite an effort for it to produce such a loud thud on the robust wood – and a faun opened the door and Reetseep said:

"Peridan is here, Your Majesties, Mr Tumnus."

The Majesties in question were sitting at a desk in front of the large, arched window that faced the sea – Peter behind the desk, Susan at his right side, with a small embroidery hoop in her lap, Edmund on Peter's left, with a piece of parchment in his hand. Lucy was sitting in a small armchair opposite to Peter, with a large book she did not seem to be reading at the moment laid open in her lap.

Methos entered the room and bowed as deeply as he could without feeling too stupid about it (which was not very deep, but actually just the right amount for the occasion). The faun – Mr Tumnus – closed the door, leaving Reetseep in the corridor. Methos flashed a short panicked look its way: he had only known the Mouse for a short while, but he already felt as if he knew it better than the people he was now left with. Children intimidated by adults were fairly easy to figure, even if they happened to be Mice. Child monarchs and fauns were a mystery.

Well, or teenaged monarchs. Tetrarchs. Whatever.

"You wished for my services?"

"We need to write a letter, Peridan," King Peter said, "and we were told your writing is good; I believe it must be better than mine, so please kindly be the scribe for us."

Well, duh. That's precisely what I'm doing here in the first place, is it not?

"We would not tear you from your work otherwise," Queen Susan smiled, "but I am afraid really neither of us writes so well, and this is a rather important letter."

"Of course," Methos said. "It is no trouble."

He noticed a smaller table in one corner of the room with a parchment already spread out, and he sat there and prepared all his writing utensils, now a bit surer of his own position.

Peter steepled his hands in a thoughtful manner, and after a while he asked:

"Ready?"

"Ready," Methos said. The King nodded, and started dictating:

"Peter, by the gift of Aslan, High King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Susan, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Southern Highlands, Edmund, King of Narnia, Duke of Lantern Waste, and Lucy, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Eastern Shores, to Lune, King of Archenland, and Lirn, Queen Consort of Archenland, Greetings."

Methos closely watched his commas and capitals; he had not written a letter like that in a long time – truthfully, the last time he had written a letter of this sort of official importance had been back when English had not even been a word yet. He also briefly wondered why they let him write an international letter of such apparent importance when Thunderbolt most probably would not allow him to.

"Right," Peter said. "I've got that down. Susan, I think it's your turn now."

Susan drew a breath, and then started dictating, in a soft, feeling voice:

"It has come to our awareness that your family has been struck by a most unfortunate turn of events. We would like to express our..." here she paused for a few moments, searching for words, "our grief at the loss of your son Cor, your heir, and on behalf of Narnia wish to offer you any help you may need in searching for him."

Now that was a new development. Was this something Peridan should know? Were they testing him? They seemed too genuinely concerned for that. He had to take their concern and their words at face value. This was that sort of place, and that sort of people.

Edmund's turn:

"We are distressed to hear of the treachery in your midst, and wish to prove that the old friendship between our lands holds true even now."

And Lucy:

"We hope that your son and Corin's brother will be found soon. Regardless of who finds him."

"You cannot put it like that," Edmund said.

"... whether our help is accepted or not?" Lucy offered, uncertainly.

"Given at Cair Paravel this XXVIII day of the month Redthrive in the third year of our reign," Mr Tumnus injected, before anyone could forget the letter was not quite finished yet. Lucy's wording was still not perfect, but it was approved, and the resulting letter thus ended up with a strange mixture of fairly competent, formal wording and a somewhat insecure familiarity. Methos had a feeling that mixture might be exactly what Narnia's relations to this Archenland were like at the moment.

"That will be all the writing from us, Peridan," Peter said, noticing that Methos still waited uncertainly with his pen dipped in the inkwell.

"So we are really not writing to the Tisroc, then?" Susan asked.

"It would be different if it were King Lune," Mr Tumnus said. "But the relations we have with Calormen –"

"The lack of relations, really," Peter said. "We cannot start them like that, Su. It could seem as if you actually revel in his illness."

"But I do mean it," Susan said. "I feel sorry for him, and it's surely courteous to let someone know you feel for them in their suffering."

"Yes, but the Tisroc would not know you mean it. Tol was right; we do not really know how Calormene courtesy works, and we could easily only commit a – what do you call it again?"

"Faux pas," Methos offered.

"That's it," Peter nodded. "Thank you, Peridan. We cannot afford to commit a faux pas with Calormen."

"But what if we commit one by not writing?" Susan argued.

"Your Majesties, if I may..." Methos said.

"Yes?" Peter turned to him again.

"Well, I believe Lord Tol was right. It is not usually done."

Because most monarchs are usually jealous of their power. These four were obviously not most monarchs, which was pleasant to observe, but could also easily get them into trouble.

"All right," Susan said. "But I do not think that can stop me from praying for him, can it?"

"Of course not," Peter said. "Now, this letter to Archenland. I suppose we should use my seal." He started rifling through the objects on his desk, apparently searching for said seal, or...

"Peridan, you do not have wax, do you?" Mr Tumnus asked.

"No," Methos said. "Not yet, that is – I have not needed to seal anything yet."

"Ah, here they are," Peter said, fishing out both seal and wax from beneath some papers. "I really could use some drawers in this desk. Is the ink dry?"

Methos observed that it was not yet dry and asked if by any chance there was a blotting paper among those objects on King Peter's desk. The High King frowned, said: "It will probably be dry before I find it," and did not bother searching.

Susan started asking Peridan how he liked his room, and whether he needed anything aside from clothes ("I am perfectly fine, Your Majesty."), and Lucy asked if Thunderbolt was not too difficult a teacher ("Not at all, Your Majesty."). Then the ink was dry, and Peter lighted a candle and sealed the parchment, while Edmund asked Peridan if he had understood everything in those documents he had been re-writing ("I hope so, Your Majesty.").

They were suddenly disturbed by a repeated sharp rap on the window. A magpie had landed on the windowsill and was knocking on the glass with its beak and hopping impatiently from side to side, before King Edmund finally extracted himself from his armchair and opened the window.

"Your Majesties, I have news from the South!" the bird said immediately. It spoke so quickly it was somewhat difficult to make out its words; its voice sounded both murmuring and croaking at the same time, though there was more emphasis on the croaking in its urgency.

"Then pray tell us!" Peter said. "Was the Prince found?"

"No, the Tisroc! The Tisroc is dead!"

Susan and Lucy both gasped.

"His son Rahash will rule now," the magpie added.

For a while, everything was silent except for the silent scratching of the bird's talons on stone; it was still hopping. It was probably a bit hyperactive.

"Well," Peter said finally, turning to his siblings. "I guess that somewhat simplifies matters."

"How?" Susan asked, surprised.

"It is easier to write to a new Tisroc than a dying one, I suppose," Peter said.

"We should still ask Tol and Thunderbolt and proceed carefully, though," Edmund said. "We certainly do not want to... bind ourselves to Calormen in some way."

"No, that is true," Peter said, and turned back to the magpie. "Thank you for the news. Would you like something to eat or drink? You can ask at the kitchens, I am sure they will find you something."

"Oh, I would rather like a nibble, thank you very much," the magpie said; it bowed (its long black tail darted up into the air at the other end), and then it took off and flew away.

Methos was rather glad to be sent back to his stack of notes and documents after that; he already had much to think about and did not exactly need to listen to the kings and queens arguing over who should be sent with the letter to Anvard. He would be interested in knowing how the diplomatic relations with Calormen would unfold, but he knew when to back off; a day after his arrival was not a good time to start prying.

* * *

That evening, Methos had Thunderbolt show him the way to the library, and when he was left on his own, he ransacked it to find a good map. Archenland lay just south of Narnia. Anvard, apparently the seat of the King of Archenland, was quite near the border. Calormen lay further to the south, separated from Archenland by a desert – not too big a desert, but it was a desert nonetheless. Calormen was at least ten times as big as both Narnia and Archenland together. Probably even bigger. He may have found himself in one of the less important countries – but then, size was not everything in a country. Just look at Switzerland or Japan.

Lone Islands was an archipelago of about three islands quite far away in the Eastern Sea. There were at least three archipelagos nearer Narnia: Seven Isles, Galma and Terebinthia. Methos wondered whether those were part of Narnia or Archenland, or whether they were independent, and how come Peter was the Emperor of Lone Islands. He also wondered how did Narnians travel there, if ever; he could not recall having seen any large ships at the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mushrooms and eggs: I stole this idea from the breakfast Shasta had with the dwarfs. And from Lithuanians.
> 
> Tetrarchs: I realised this thanks to the story "Just A Normal Christmas Eve" by Eavis on FF.net. Methos, unlike me, speaks Greek (three dialects at the least. ;-), and should realise that "monarch" does not really apply. And it's apparently an accepted term; just not one you run into regularly, because you don't run into tetrarchs regularly.
> 
> I re-named June "Redthrive", in accord with "Greenroof" from Prince Caspian; I decided Greenroof was July, because green leaves are what July is most clearly defined by for me, while June has a lot to do with the colour red in my mind, and not just because it is involved in its Czech name...
> 
> The magpie messenger is somewhat lifted from cofax's story "Carpetbaggers" (an excellent and slightly disturbing story about the very beginning of the Pevensies' rule that I discovered three chapters into this one; it gave me some ideas, but I do not really want to follow it, in part because it's movie-based). But I really settled on using a talking magpie here after having observed one. Well, I could not understand what it was saying, but it was very clearly speech.


	9. In which our hero settles in

**Chapter 9**

**In which our hero settles in**

During the first weeks, Methos came to realise – with a strange sort of relief – that there were animal and other knights in Narnia. Thunderbolt himself occasionally signed as "Sir Thunderbolt, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table." Mr Beaver, who was overlooking the building of Narnia's first large ship at the river mouth, with a number of Archen shipbuilders at his command, was, in fact, Lord Beaver, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion. For some reason, people still called him just Mr Beaver. Methos found out about his title thanks to a seal on a shipbuilding document he was not allowed to read, only to carry, and started calling him Lord Beaver just to be on the safe side. But the shipmaster only snorted in a most rodent-like manner (whiskers twitching) and said that "Mr Beaver" was quite all right for these occasions. By "these occasions" he probably meant the fact that he was standing on a veritable _pile_ of wood-shavings, with a considerable amount of them entangled in his fur, and Peridan was ink-smudged and dressed in a tunic that he had been wearing for days.

Methos began to suspect there were much more Sirs, Lords and Ladies around than just among the humans. But many of the Beasts and creatures apparently preferred a more natural sort of authority, based on experience rather than titles themselves. (Everyone knew that Mr Beaver was _the_ expert on woodwork, so there was no need to press his importance.) For Methos, this discovery meant several things. There was that odd relief: he was, somehow, glad to know that anyone could be a nobleman; the idea that in a country full of so many varied intelligent beings only some could hold a position of authority was a disturbing one. It smelled of totalitarianism and he would wish that on no country, least of all one where he had to live. So he was glad to see that was not the case with Narnia.

It also meant that he had to be really careful about the way he treated people. Anyone could be a nobleman.

And thirdly, even though he was not fully aware of this final effect, he began to view knighthood in a somewhat different light. The knowledge that the extremely practical and down-to-earth Mr Beaver was a Knight of the Most Noble Order this and that gave said Order greater weight. It was not just one of the titles plastered after the High King's name (he had written those formulaic titles so many times in the past weeks that he had gotten rather fed up with them). There was something more to it, some substance, although he was still not sure what that was.

* * *

"You are an avid reader, Peridan," Thunderbolt remarked about three weeks into Methos' stay in Cair Paravel. "Perhaps, too avid. I hear you are on your twentieth candle already. You are on your tenth book, too." He looked at Peridan sharply and added: "What merit does such a hurried reading have for the reader?"

Methos gulped.

"I simply am a fast reader," he said. "Always have been. Fast reader, fast learner."

It had something to do with his Immortal memory. Immortals tended to have photographic memory: what they once saw they never forgot. It served them well for recognising faces of prospective opponents in The Game, but Methos, for all his will to survive, liked its perks for academic life even more. He always remembered what he had read where, what he had written where, which had also once made it much easier to decide what he wanted the Watchers to know...

"Remembering things is not enough, though," Thunderbolt said, still with sharpness to his tone. "You have to think about them."

Methos shrugged. He could not tell Thunderbolt just how furiously he was thinking about it all, trying to make sense of and acclimatise himself to a world brand new to him. Every time he thought he had got it down, he ran across another fact that threw him. Like the presence of potatoes in this medieval-ish world, the presence of machine-sewn clothes in his (still very limited) wardrobe, or the fact that in this world, stars were considered to be people, quite literally.

"I cannot prove to you that I do, can I?" he said.

"Not now," Thunderbolt admitted. "We have work to do. But we could discuss your reading in the evening."

Maybe he had relieved Thunderbolt of too much of his work. The centaur now had time to ponder such things like Peridan's reading... Did he not have enough of tutoring the kings and queens? He still held lessons with them (though not as frequent as regular school would have been), apparently teaching them such varied subjects as rhetoric, history and mathematics. Did he really need to tutor Peridan as well?

Methos was beginning to think Thunderbolt was a workaholic. He could not recall having seen the centaur just relaxing in the three weeks he had known him. Keeping the archives, being a scribe, tutoring the tetrarchs and advising them regularly. There must have been someone else to do at least one of those jobs, right? Someone before Peridan, that is.

To be fair, he had not really relaxed in those three weeks, either. His own job had quickly expanded, although most of it still had to do with writing. He did help Thunderbolt with the archive, unearthing historical volumes and documents of state and organising them anew, but that was only a fraction of his duties. Many things around the castle had to be recorded. There was a lot of letters being sent to keep trace of what was going on around the country as well as abroad, with birds serving as messengers, and while Thunderbolt and Tol did most of the work there, Peridan was called upon, too, especially if two or more of the tetrarchs needed a scribe at the same time. Tol limited himself to an advisory role and, as far as Methos could tell from his brief encounters, the Lord's writing was not much better than Lucy's, though he was well-read. He had his own scribe.

One of the things that were being closely watched by the four was the still unsuccessful search for the lost prince of Archenland; King Lune had graciously accepted Narnia's offer of help, but it was apparently no good either way. Methos, after he had heard the brief of the thing from castle gossip, did not give the Narnian searchers much chance to succeed. The child had been kidnapped by a treacherous member of King Lune's court (Methos began to understand King Edmund's contribution to the letter, and also his concern) and then had disappeared at sea, on the way south from Archenland. Narnia did not have any ships to speak of at the moment, so there could be no thorough naval search. The chances of the boat with the prince washing on Narnian shores were pretty slim, in Methos' opinion. He did not tell anyone about his misgivings, though, because he did not feel he was in a position to crush their hopes; besides, one never really knew for sure.

The establishment of relations to Calormen had apparently been postponed to some later date. "We only learn about these things from Sallowpad the Raven; there is no way we could learn about Calormen officially, and we do not want to start anything while we do not have the full picture," Thunderbolt told Methos when curiosity took the better of him and he asked. Methos supposed he was only told because he had already been privy to the tetrarchs' discussion of the matter, so there was not much new he could learn now.

Beside the reason Thunderbolt gave him, there was apparently simply too much to do at home.

And Methos had much else to do as well – since Narnia was still rebuilding, new laws, proclamations or rights had to be created as new realities sprang to life, even if they were small things, and he had recorded three such documents in the three weeks and written many letters related to them. Moreover, many of the inhabitants of the castle were apparently illiterate, although the level of literacy seemed somewhat higher than it had been in the Middle Ages. Sometimes, people asked him to read something for them. King Peter often needed help in deciphering letters from his subjects, not all of whom would have pen and ink at hand (some of the letters were also written on birch bark, old leather that was nearly falling apart, and other similar materials). Cooks called him into the kitchens to write down shopping lists and menus for Queen Susan, who was overseeing the whole workings of the castle and did not always have time to come down herself, but still wanted to keep trace of what was going on. (The kitchens were very impressive, apparently among the first rooms of the castle to have been re-fitted, and the head cook – Mrs Beaver – was way scarier in her brisk efficiency combined with talkativeness than a being half Methos' height had a right to be. She was also a bane for any children trying to sneak into the cake pantry, because even amongst all the smells from the cooking, she could always pick up their scent.) Queen Lucy asked him to write down herb-processing methods she had learned ("I would not be able to read my own writing, you know."), and because she needed pictures, too, he trudged after her into the herb garden and did his best at scientific illustration. (He left the colouring to her, though.) King Edmund was writing up some trade agreements and sent him to check with the shipbuilders at the river mouth just how much cloth they needed for the sails. The humans in the village asked him in turn to write some letters to their families in Archenland. All in all, he spent much less time shut off in a study and did much more running of errands, even outdoors, than he had originally expected to.

And he had to squeeze some time to ride and treat Tira on a regular basis and practice his sword skills into all of that. He fulfilled his half-promise to the faun Arminius very soon, simply because it was an excuse to go to the training grounds fairly regularly. (Arminius was clumsy with a sword but otherwise very agile and a promising student.)

By the end of the first week, Methos had been really grateful to find out that Narnians kept Sundays.

* * *

It was at a Sunday dinner, the first week, when the inevitable had happened. Garvan and his people were to leave the following day, so a small feast was held, and Peridan was invited to dine with the tetrarchs and lords. He would miss Garvan; his surprising magnanimity was still a mystery to Methos, but he had soon realised that it was real, not a show, and he began to view the man in much the same way he had treated Mag, though perhaps with more deference with respect to their more obviously unequal status.

"How old are you, Peridan?" Queen Lucy asked him off-hand during the dinner.

"I do not know," he said truthfully.

"You do not know?" she stared at him incredulously. "Everyone should know when their birthday is!"

"Well, I do not," he said. "To the best of my knowledge I am an orphan, a foundling. Which means I do not know my real age." He truly did not; it all became a bit fuzzy after some time, especially with all the changes in calendars, and all those times in his life when all sorts of things had a higher priority than counting the time.

That revelation took them all a bit aback; he saw looks of sympathy in their eyes and wished they'd drop the subject out of that sympathy. He knew they would not.

Queen Susan eyed him thoughtfully for a while and then she said firmly:

"I'd say nineteen. That is a good age. You are adult already, but still young enough to have a right to foolish behaviour at times."

He suspected she was channelling her own wish: she had to behave as an adult, but her position gave her no right to foolish behaviour, at any times. He was actually rather surprised by her assessment, though. He did not know how old he had been at the time of his first death either, but he suspected it had been more than nineteen. Had he pulled off that "young knight" routine so well? Well, maybe he had. He had played young many times before; recently, every time he had needed to start afresh and wanted to study for a new line of work.

"Nineteen sounds good to me," he said. "It does not make me too much older than you; I would hate to..."

"Play adult to us," Edmund said, grinning in a rather unroyal manner.

"Something like that, Your Majesty," Methos agreed. Edmund seemed to have a remarkable knack for seeing into people's motivations, even if he could not know just how close he was this time. It is difficult to play a servant when the mere sight of your masters reminds you of your own superiority. It was easier with Thunderbolt, who invited respect almost automatically and sometimes truly felt as a far greater man than him. Methos still did not know what exactly Thunderbolt's involvement in the uprising against the Witch had been, but the esteem in which others held him and the way the centaur avoided the issue made him think it had been large. (And Methos knew all too well that he himself would have played the "safe" card.) It was even easier to interact with Garvan now that the lord had dropped his own superiority. With the kings and queens, he was not so sure – striking the delicate balance between the friendship they so easily invited and the respect they so clearly required was quite difficult. If he positioned himself as a man not that much older than them, the balance could perhaps come more naturally.

Of course, the subject of his origin was not so easily dropped; he considered himself extremely lucky to have gone so far without being questioned much. He had managed to read up and hear up enough about this world to fabricate a plausible, if somewhat vague, background story for himself: an orphan adopted by a kind though poor nobleman (who had somehow taken on a lot of Joe's characteristics in the telling, including a love of history and an old war wound), accepted as a son but thrown out by the man's family after his death; Peridan had wandered about after that, reduced to a nobody again, but retaining his sense of honour (MacLeod, hear the irony), until he heard about the changes in Narnia and decided to try out his fortune there.

They accepted the story and him along with it, and showed him more sympathy; he could not decide whether it proved a proficiency in lying on his part, a lack of judgement on theirs, or simply an abundance of good will. The story was a rather good one, either way: it explained most of his incongruities, his prowess in arms as well as his bookishness, his nobility as well as his pauperism. Of course, it still maintained that deep pit at his feet, his supposed knowledge of more parts of this world than the ones he currently found himself in. He fervently hoped that they would not try and call on his knowledge.

* * *

He did run into people who did not like him. The humans were mostly all right, especially the lower classes. Lord Tol, whenever he had any dealings with him, still treated him with a sort of lordly disdain. But then Lord Tol was rather aloof of everyone and Methos was not sure how much of it was Tol's true feelings and how much simply an impression he made with his appearance. The man's cleanliness was a mystery to him. In the evenings, Peridan invariably came to his room with clothes sweated through, soil on his boots and ink on his hands. As he ran errands all over the place, he kept glimpsing Tol overseeing the work in the castle and lending a hand here and there, yet the lord was always neat and tidy; he gave the impression of maintaining a tiny personal force field around himself that kept everyone and everything at bay, including any sort of dirt. For about ten days of occasional pondering on this mysterious phenomenon, Methos was rather frustrated with his own inability to remain clean. Then he just threw it overboard and accepted the fact that Peridan was clearly not meant to be an image of perfection. He figured he did not really care, as long as he performed satisfactorily in his actual work and did not draw too much attention to himself.

He made a point of being just a guy, as usual, and it did play out in his favour. He was hardworking and studious yet somewhat messy: these were traits he had employed in his recent identities, so they already came quite naturally to him (so much so that he was no longer sure how much of it was an act and how much was him). Luckily for him, Narnia (and, to some extent, Archenland) was apparently the only country where all those strange creatures lived, so it was only to be expected that Peridan would be surprised at some encounters, so his occasional flinching and slips of the tongue were not suspicious. He took great care to talk in a certain way, without throwing too many quotes or allusions into his speech (that one occasion with the prayer had been enough to give him a warning). He did not stand out, did what he was told to do, and most people got used to him quickly; the humans soon accepted him as one of their own kind. However, there were some others who still thought of him as an unwelcome stranger.

The Black Dwarfs in particular kept throwing nasty looks his way whenever he encountered them, especially their leader. Tazzik, Methos thought, was a man not so easily taken in. Sometimes he was too suspicious for his own good, as in Thornbut's case. Thornbut was all right, mostly a victim of circumstances, and doing all his best to make a new life for himself. (Methos, now that he had his own horse, went to the stables often enough to have made a measure of the young dwarf, which was basically the same conclusion he had arrived at originally: morose, but ultimately with a good heart.) His kinsmen were not helping him in any way, which, as far as Methos was concerned, was their bad. But Tazzik did have sharp eyes and a sharp mind used to recognising deceit, something he surely must have put to good use during the Winter, and he did smell something off about Peridan. He kept throwing jabs his way, clearly meant to mock and hurt the newcomer. Some came when the two of them met in the corridors, alone or only with other dwarfs around. Others were uttered in larger company; Methos could see Tazzik revelling in the anticipation of Peridan's public embarrassment. Methos managed to avoid humiliation – two could play that game, and he was good at it – but the dwarf's remarks hit home more often than not, which was disconcerting in ways Tazzik could hardly imagine.

"What's your business here, coming here out of nowhere?!"

Methos still wished he knew.

"Why don't you let go of your sword for once? Nobody's going to steal it from you."

Maybe not; but Methos still did not know what the situation in this world was re: Immortals. The absence of any buzzes in the last month did not necessarily mean there were none. In his own world, he could sometimes go for _decades_ without encountering any of his own kind. That made it all the more crucial to be prepared when suddenly one appeared. And old habits died hard. Good thing that carrying a sword was part of being a knight; he told Tazzik something to that effect.

"You're no more a knight than I am."

Touché. It was all the doublet's fault. Well, it actually boiled down to being his own fault for hooking up with that sort of society. How could he have known it would become so real?

He had countered that particular jab with a fairly truthful background story idea that Peridan had never made it to being knighted. "But I was about to be." Most everyone treated him as if he were, or as someone about to be, even after this admission. Tazzik, of course, did not bother.

But with Tazzik around, an irrational need to be contrary and prove the black dwarf wrong always welled up in Methos. Ever since that exchange, which had occurred very early on in his stay at Cair Paravel, instead of giving Tazzik his money's worth back plus interest, Peridan's behaviour towards him was most courteous (though he still always tried to have the last word). Generally, he behaved in a very conscientious way, way more chivalrous towards others than was his wont, even though he still did not see why he should be particularly kid-gloved towards women. As a direct result of these two warring tendencies, he ended up being nice to _everyone_. It was quite exhausting, and he would have soon admitted defeat, had it not been for the fact that most people were nice to him in return. He got used to that very quickly, and the cutting remarks and dark looks hurt all the more after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "MacLeod, hear the irony" – For what seems to be the minority of my readers, people who are not familiar with Highlander: Duncan MacLeod was taken in and raised by the head of the MacLeod clan, and then disinherited and thrown out when his Immortality was revealed. However, he retained his sense of honour and sense of connection to the family. (And travelled the world afterwards.) Methos' usual reaction for such a situation would more likely be "people just ain't no good" than the "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod!" Duncan stubbornly sticks to.
> 
> And I promise, this should be the last chapter where "nothing happens" (relatively speaking). Something is boiling in the background... hopefully enough to shake things up a little bit.


	10. In which our hero gets into a scrap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the reactions, particularly the comments - it is always good to see what impression my writing gives.

**Chapter 10**

**In which our hero gets into a scrap**

 

It was in the second week of August – Grainreap, as many called it in Narnia – and Queen Lucy was very busy in the gardens. She often took Peridan with her, because she was impressed with the young scribe's illustrating skills and there was always something to draw or write down. Methos was not particularly happy about the workload backlash this resulted in elsewhere, but he enjoyed the sessions themselves immensely. Lucy was a very agreeable companion and some of the Narnian herbs were new to him, so he was learning with her.

"This is halefoil. It is useful for stomach aches, especially for unicorns and Deer. And Horses, of course. It is too late to pick it now, though; it is best in spring, before it flowers."

It was a yellow-flowering plant, vaguely similar to St John's wort – hardly the same, though, because if Methos remembered correctly, the latter was an antidepressant rather than a digestive. Halefoil was smaller, too.

"This is greencimbel. It's good for teas for cough, but I don't like it very much – it smells horribly when you brew it, you know," she told him about a tall green plant. "It's one of those medicines that are almost worse than the illness!"

Methos agreed with her that medicine could, sometimes, be quite vile. Not that he would know some of the effects from first-hand experience, but Joe had not been very happy about his treatment, either, even if it had saved his life... And he had had his share of smelly medicines around when he had been doing the doctor's job.

"This one's my favourite. Smell it – it's such a lovely scent."

Methos took a sniff and was overwhelmed by the fresh and sweet, slightly spicy, earthy yet otherworldly scent of the small thyme-like flower. It was a sort of scent that reminded you of all good things you've ever known and made you think that the world was not such a bad place after all.

"So good," Lucy said, smelling it as well. "And a very good herb. Good for colds and sore throat and even for healing wounds; it's so wonderful to have an herb like that, because Peter told me not to use my cordial all the time. – The one I got from Father Christmas, you know."

Methos did not know, but he did not ask – not about that, anyway.

"What is it called? It looks a bit like thyme."

"It is a thyme," Lucy said. "But I think it has different leaves. Wider."

"I cannot remember."

"We could look into a book. There are herbals in the library, but I like the real plants better, so I do not use them much... Oh, and it's called windthyme. Even the name is pretty!"

Methos swallowed a remark about the point of writing it all down if there already were other books available; he understood her need to have it all in one place and in terms she would understand.

She picked up her basket of windthyme, he gathered up all his writing and drawing tools, inks, pencils and papers, and they left the hot, sunny garden and headed through the pleasantly cold and surprisingly dark stony archways and corridors to the library.

* * *

The library had quickly become one of Methos' favourite places in the castle, not least of all because it was one of the few places where he truly was in peace and quiet, if only for short periods of time. There were, of course, those evenings spent in discussion with Thunderbolt, which was in theory just two friends sitting (or lying down in Thunderbolt's case) and talking; but Thunderbolt was a ruthless debater, so Methos always had to be on guard, and as much as he enjoyed discussion, he never could be completely _himself_. In the library, he could, for moments, forget that he was playing an act.

This time, though, he had to keep up the act. Not only was he accompanied by Queen Lucy; when they entered the library, they found Mrs Beaver sitting at one of the tables, with an old book in front of her, very much immersed in whatever it was she was reading. She was turning the pages carefully (for the first time, Methos noticed that she had truly opposable thumbs, unlike beavers in his world) and blinking into the pages from a very short distance (still not very good eyesight, Methos realised).

"Hello, Mrs Beaver!" Lucy sided up to her and greeted her cheerfully.

"Oh!" Mrs Beaver almost jumped up. "Hello, Your Majesty!"

Even after the month and a half, Methos was still amused by the way the Beasts treated Lucy as both a sovereign and a very good friend.

"This is so interesting, I did not notice you coming," Mrs Beaver said, tapping the book. "Can you imagine – it is Queen Helen's cookbook! Thunderbolt found it. Well, it is not really _hers_ , as such – he says it must be a copy. And that's probably the only reason why he even lets me touch it, the way he goes on. But it is no matter to me. There is a recipe for the gooseberry fools you told me about."

"Is there!" Lucy beamed up, and in that instant, herbs were forgotten. "I had those last when I was six or seven."

Which is eternity for a girl of her age.

"And Thunderbolt found this just in time, too," Mrs Beaver continued, her eyes as bright as Lucy's. "There are still gooseberries left, and I can make you some for your birthday."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Lucy said.

There was another piece of news for Methos.

"When is _your_ birthday, Your Majesty?" he asked, with purposeful emphasis on "your", given the conversation they had had about birthdays earlier.

"On the twelfth of August," she said. "When is – oh, I'm sorry."

"No offence taken," Methos said, suppressing laughter at her innocent mistake.

"Did you never celebrate any birthday?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But I can certainly celebrate yours," he added, because the topic of _his_ birthday still made him feel rather squeamish.

"Just don't feel you have to give me gifts, please," she said. "I will get so many anyway – I have three siblings, you know – and you don't have any, it would be unfair."

There were some links missing in that logic, but he knew what she meant, and was grateful to her.

"Maybe I could -," he offered thoughtfully, "- bind those notes we've made for you? Though I probably do not have enough time for that."

"Oh, do not bother," she said. "Not yet, anyway. There are more notes to be made, you know. Maybe for Christmas."

* * *

For that warm, sleepy afternoon, Methos decided to happily forget about any documents of state that might be waiting to be written, and stayed with Queen Lucy and Mrs Beaver in the library, alternating between the cookbook and the herbals. Sometimes, they found parallels between the ingredients in the former and the plants in the latter, which never ceased to amuse Lucy as she tried to imagine how food could be used for healing. Mrs Beaver also happily forgot that she had the whole kitchens to preside over, and sang out a string of delighted exclamations over the recipes in the cookbook, many of which were apparently some lost treasures of old Narnian cuisine.

They did not get to enjoy that blissful abandon for very long, though, because suddenly, Mr Tumnus burst through the doors, and cried out:

"Oh, thank the Lion you are here, Your Majesty! I could not find anyone. The dwarfs are fighting in the courtyard, and no one can stop them, or find out what is going on. And both of them, too!"

"What do you mean, both of them?" Lucy asked, confused.

"The Reds and the Blacks," the faun said, fast and short of breath. "And not even between themselves – I mean, not Reds against Blacks as it sometimes is, you know? Just all of them shouting at one another and scrambling like kittens. Even Smithkin!"

"Oh dear," Mrs Beaver said. "That's serious! What could have gotten into them?"

Lucy trembled a bit, but she said determinedly:

"Let's find out!"

It was very brave of her, Methos thought: she was still just a small child, a little girl that would no doubt stay away from fighting boys in her world.

"Come quick," Mr Tumnus said. "Before someone is seriously hurt. I hope they will listen to their Queen; they just do not even _hear_ anyone."

"You should go with us, too, Peridan," Mrs Beaver turned to Methos. "We will need someone big to – to intervene if anything happens."

Methos nodded. He did not like getting between people arguing and fighting unless absolutely necessary; but given the size and strength of the other three, he was quite certain this was one of those cases.

They rushed through the castle after Tumnus, down to the main courtyard, which was surprisingly empty for an area that was in the heart of the castle. Except for the dozen or so dwarfs squabbling and scraping and shrieking in the centre, and a few small Beasts standing as far away from them as possible in astounded quandary. There were both Black and Red Dwarfs, as Tumnus had said, with – Methos felt his heart stop for just a moment, and then race even faster – Thornbut in the very middle of the scrimmage, lying on the ground under the weight of all the others' fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucy shouted with all the authority of her status, but unfortunately not with accordant strength in her voice. Neither of the dwarfs paid her any attention.

"Stop!" she shouted again, with the same results. The dwarfs kept throwing insults at each other, all at the same time, so it was difficult to make out what either of them was saying. Methos, though, thought he could hear Tazzik shout at Thornbut – who else? – something like "Witchfetcher!"

Methos took several slow breaths to steady himself, and then drew as much air as he could and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"The Queen is speaking!"

His voice broke towards the end under the force of his own outcry, but it did the job. The dwarfs all stopped at once and turned towards them, shocked by the sudden realisation that they were not alone.

Lucy shot him a thankful look and then turned to the dwarfs and said sternly:

"Does it befit free Narnian dwarfs to fight and call one another names like schoolchildren? What has gotten into you?"

The dwarfs all shifted uncomfortably and looked down (except for Thornbut, who slowly rose and dusted himself off uncomfortably, looking down) and neither ventured to explain what was going on. It seemed each of them was waiting for someone else to do the inevitable, or perhaps they all of a sudden stuck together against outside authority, just like the schoolchildren Lucy had likened them to. The Queen stamped her foot impatiently.

"Who started this?" she said, and the whole situation really took on a surreal schoolyard appearance.

"Him!" Tazzik said and pointed at Thornbut.

"You did, you liar!" one of the red dwarfs shouted. "You just always pick on him!"

"I wouldn't if he wasn't such a knucklehead! And you too!" Tazzik shot back.

"Don't start again!" Smithkin snapped at him.

"What, you take their side now?" Tazzik refused to back off. "I heard you supporting my case earlier, you coward!"

"That was different!" Smithkin objected. "Now you're just being irrational!"

Another wall of shouts was raised.

"Stop, stop!" Lucy cried. "Nevermind who started it – what _is_ the matter with you?"

Once more, the dwarfs did not pay attention. Some more blows fell. Thornbut tried to stop Tazzik from hitting Smithkin and, not very surprisingly, became the victim of the black leader's hand himself. For just a moment, Methos glimpsed a look of mindless violence in Tazzik's eyes. He knew that look (he had seen it way too often in his own riding companions, and it had been one of the reasons why he had left them in the end), and he knew it did not bode well for the younger dwarf. He ploughed mercilessly into the riot of small but stone-hard bodies and snatched Tazzik's right arm before he could strike again. Too late did Methos realise that his standing with the Black Dwarf was not much better than Thornbut's: Tazzik did not even look at him and immediately drove his left elbow up into a spot on his body where it _hurt very much_.

Methos cried out in pain, and then shouted something very, _very_ rude that Queen Lucy really should not have heard.

As luck would have it, right then everyone fell silent – of course –, except for Mrs Beaver, who said very quietly and very distinctly:

"My, that was right on target!"

Some of the small Beasts giggled.

Methos later decided that it was worth it after all – though barely – because then, some of the dwarfs chuckled, too, and much of the tension that had been sparking in the courtyard dissipated, and everyone's attention shifted from whatever it was the dwarfs were fighting about to him.

At that moment, though, he did not feel that way. He rather wished he were not there, not there right in front of Queen Lucy who had seen and heard it all and stared at him with a look where utter indignation seemed to be fighting for dominion with uncontrollable merriment. She did have two older brothers, after all...

No, he really did not want to be there right then. He folded down on the ground and hid his face in the palms of his hands, once more wishing for the earth to open and swallow him up (but not permanently, thank you very much). He felt somebody's hand on his shoulder. He looked up again, straight into Thornbut's face. The dwarf was very undoubtedly smiling, probably fighting laughter; but he said very seriously:

"Thank you."

Methos tried to smile back and failed miserably.

"Well," Lucy said finally. "I think that was enough of that, don't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Grainreap" is obvious, is it not? It is, again, rather based on the Czech name for August – "srpen", where "srp" is "sickle". The obvious harvest season of August was one of the main reasons why I decided Greenroof would be July...
> 
> "Cimbel" is apparently "bait" in Spanish. Do not ask me why the plant is called so. It just sounded good. Halefoil is shamelessly stolen from Tolkien's "kingsfoil". Windthyme… just sounded good.
> 
> If I'm to be honest with you (and myself) – I did enjoy being nasty to Methos. But that's not why…! It just made perfect sense with a dwarf opponent. Ahem.  
> (The choreography of the thing may be a bit complicated. I'm not sure.)
> 
> And you'll have to wait to see what it was all about till the next chapter! Which is most likely to come next year. Heh. Alternately, you can just hop over to FF.net; but I'm making cosmetic alterations here and there in these chapters over here.


	11. In which our hero observes an argument

**Chapter 11**

**In which our hero observes an argument**

 

King Peter and King Edmund had been out for a ride with Lord Tol and Thunderbolt, to take a look at the nearly finished ship and to discuss an archery competition they were secretly planning for Queen Lucy's birthday. When they returned to the castle, they were met some way before the gate by a very distressed Reetseep. The Mouse ran with all his might towards them, and shouted at the top of his high voice:

"Your Majesties – Your Lordships – you _must_ come to the courtyard – the dwarfs are fighting and Queen Lucy –"

"Lucy!" Edmund cried, and rode fast to the gate; the others followed, but Peter stopped just a moment to pick Reetseep up and set him on the horse's back before himself.

"Why are they fighting?"

"Nobody knows! And I wasn't there when it started."

"All right. You showed presence of mind in running for help," Peter said reassuringly, and observed with satisfaction that the Mouse immediately rose about an inch. It was high time Reetseep realised his own worth! Without his dutiful running of errands and collected (if still rather big-eyed) reactions to changes in plans, half the castle would have probably fallen into chaos in the previous weeks.

Peter soon noticed that the situation could not be so bad after all, because even before he emerged from the gateway after his companions, he could hear the sound of giggles from the courtyard over the sound of their horses' hooves. You could trust Lucy to lighten the atmosphere wherever she went, he thought; but when the scene opened before him, he realised the pretext for the giggles was focused on different parties and Lucy seemed more baffled by the situation than anything else.

There was a partially broken up huddle of dwarfs in the centre of the courtyard and in their midst, Peridan was heaving himself up from the ground with Thornbut's help, still retaining most of his folded up position even after he rose. Tazzik stood next to them, looking at the man with a triumphant challenge in his face and posture.

"Tazzik, you –" Peridan groaned.

"Yes? What am I?" prodded the dwarf; from his look and behaviour, Peter would swear he must have been behind most of the trouble boiling here, whatever it actually entailed.

Peridan glared at Tazzik with the vengeful ire of an injured party in his eyes. And then, suddenly, something snapped and shifted in his countenance and he straightened up and said, still with a hint of indignation but mostly with dignity:

"You have very good aim."

"What did I say?" Mrs Beaver murmured from beside Lucy, and a new peal of laughter shook the onlookers as well as some of the dwarfs.

"What happened?" Peter asked, deciding this moment when everyone was momentarily distracted was the best time to intervene.

"The dwarfs started fighting again. Peridan tried to stop them and got hit himself… in a rather delicate place," Mr Tumnus explained.

Both Peter and Edmund winced on Peridan's behalf, while Tol unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smirk; only Thunderbolt remained stoic.

"But why were they fighting in the first place?" Edmund asked.

"We still do not know that," Lucy said. "I tried to ask them how it happened, and they only started accusing one another, and what you've heard followed."

Peter shook his head in exasperation. He knew dwarfs could be stubborn, but he had never before seen them being so… thick-headed. Fighting like that, who knows what for, ignoring everyone else. None of the dwarfs had volunteered to enlighten them yet. And then, just as if to restore in him some of the disappearing faith in his Narnians, Smithkin spoke up:

"Your Majesties, I think I could explain." Some of the other dwarfs looked at him darkly, while others seemed relieved that he had taken the necessary duty of telling the Kings and Queen upon himself. "It was all because of school."

"School?" Lord Tol asked incredulously. "You nearly killed yourselves _and_ others off because of _school?!_ "

"It is not a light matter," Smithkin said. "It's been two years. Some of us have been hoping something would have changed by now."

"Changed?" Peter asked, confused. "Are the teachers bad? You should have told us; we tried to choose good and wise people."

"It's not the teachers as such," Smithkin replied cautiously.

"It's the whole system!" Tazzik exclaimed.

"There's nothing wrong with the system," one of the Red Dwarf gardeners – Dobbin – said. "It works for everyone!"

Apparently, the dwarfs just could not explain anything to the others till they have explained matters to one another – which event did not seem to be coming any time soon.

"But we're not just everyone!" Tazzik said. "We're dwarfs!"

"I don't know what makes dwarfs so different from, say, satyrs," Thornbut said.

"I said he was a knucklehead, didn't I?" Tazzik scoffed.

"In this particular case," Thornbut added.

"Well, he's got a point – in this particular case, we're in the same tight spot with the satyrs," Smithkin agreed.

"Would you, by your leave, explain what exactly this tight spot you are talking about is?" Edmund asked, before the conversation could escalate into yet another fight. "It is apparently something we are unable to infer on our own."

And just when did Edmund start to think and talk like that?, Peter wondered, and felt a surge of pride for his younger brother's competence.

"Well, the thing is, school is not good for our children," Smithkin said.

"But I don't see why," Dobbin said.

"I learnt useful things at school," Thornbut agreed.

"And what use, if you don't mind telling me, is reading and writing to you in the stables?" Tazzik snapped, once more derailing the conversation and directing its focus to other dwarfs instead of their three rulers waiting for explanations. "What use has it _ever_ been to you there?"

"I can read books when I'm finished in the stables, and write my letters to my mom _myself_ ," Thornbut said with umbrage.

"But you would not have needed to be sent to school for that," Smithkin said peacefully. "Your mom could have taught you herself."

"And _she_ wouldn't have filled your head with all that witchy nonsense," Tazzik added pointedly. "Just like me mom didn't."

"Just like she did not fill your head with any manners, either," Dobbin said. "You would not get away with that sort of behaviour at school!"

"Um," Thornbut did, apparently not agreeing with Dobbin on this particular point. Peter could very well imagine Thornbut had been picked on at school, just like he was picked on now. Dobbin did not pay him any heed, though, and kept his argument with Tazzik.

"There is a good reason why our children are sent to school with everyone else! Otherwise they would end up thinking the world begins and ends with dwarfs. And you're apparently thinking that, too! So your mom didn't make such a great teacher after all."

"Oho!" Tazik said. "Who's got bad manners now? And don't even try to pretend the whole thing was started on good intentions. We both know it wasn't!"

"But it's built on good intentions now! So what if it was misused originally; it isn't now. You're just trying to make dwarfs more special."

During the whole conversation, Peridan had still been standing among the dwarfs; towering above them, but completely ignored. Now, he seemed to have caught onto an underlying idea that the dwarfs never mentioned directly.

"Is _that_ what this is all about? Some sort of fear of... indoctrination?" he asked.

Once more, he drew everyone's attention to himself. Most people were looking at him in confusion, because they did not understand what he had said. Peter was not entirely sure he had got the correct meaning, either, but his understanding was certainly better than Tazzik's.

"What are you talking about?" the dwarf asked Peridan suspiciously. "Nobody's making doctors of my children, that much is sure, and nobody's ever tried. Nor is going to try, either!"

"Peridan is, I believe, suggesting that you fear school could, once more, do what Jadis used it for: to break up the traditional upbringing and craftsmanship of dwarfs and their family ties," Thunderbolt said. It was the first thing he said during the whole commotion, and as was often the case with him, when he spoke, he cut straight to the heart of the matter.

"That sounds about right," said both Smithkin and Peridan at once. The two of them immediately exchanged startled and slightly amused glances. Even though each of them had agreed with a different aspect of Thunderbolt's speech (Peridan agreeing that that was what he had meant, Smithkin agreeing that that was what it was all about), the centaur had summed up both of their thoughts very succinctly.

"Aslan be praised: we know the problem at last," Peter said. "Rest assured, we had no idea that the Witch had done that. Nobody had told us before."

* * *

And nobody had bothered to mention that important fact to the new rulers? In two years? Methos wondered. There were possibly some serious trust issues there. And somebody – I'm looking at you, Thunderbolt – had failed to realise just how serious a problem that is, continuing a practice set up by a tyrant.

Of course, it was exactly the sort of issue Thunderbolt would be likely to overlook. Thunderbolt was all about education. He would think that education with good intent was all right. And in normal circumstances, Methos would agree; but the matter of "we don't need no thought control, no dark sarcasm in the classroom" had left scars and had led to some unrest in the most recent times he had lived through. Not all aspects of organised education were good for everyone. And it was not even always the teachers' fault. Sometimes, it was simply the fact that there was not enough room to give the necessary attention to everyone. And some teachers could harm even with good intent.

In this case, though, the issue seemed to run deeper than individual child-teacher relations. It seemed to be more of a homeschooling-related argument. Given the fact that the dwarfs' society was, as he far as he had managed to learn in the past weeks, highly skill-focused and working on a sort of master-apprentice basis (very often centred in families; most of Smithkin's and Dobbin's apprentices were their children or nieces and nephews), Methos could understand why they would see the need for homeschooling. The complicated part was, however, that not even the dwarfs themselves seemed to agree on the importance of the issue. Dobbin, who seemed to be the most adamant proponent of the status quo, was just as reliant upon the work of his apprentices in the gardens as Smithkin was in his forge shop. Tazzik, whose trade – at least Methos thought so, because the dwarf would never let him get close enough to learn more about his work – did not require such a structure, was on the other hand very much opposed to the school system.

Well, a part of Tazzik's attitude certainly had to do with the fact that he associated the system with the Witch, and the poor former servant of the aforementioned in the ranks of his own people. But that attitude could not completely discredit the argument he was upholding; Smithkin was much more judicious in his reasoning for the same.

"I do not think this is a good place to deal with this further," King Peter said, tearing Methos out of his thoughts. "You have fought here; others were hurt here."

Read: me, Methos thought sarcastically. He just made a good incidental argument for the king. But if it meant this was going to be discussed with more perspective and authority, somewhere else where he would not have to stand right in front of Queen Lucy (his own expletive was still ringing in his ears) and be the object of Mrs Beaver's scrutiny, he really could not raise any objections against it.

"Besides, our sister Susan should learn of this matter as well, and be present to our further discussion," Peter continued. "We shall meet after tea in the Great Hall. In the meantime, I entreat you, do not start fighting again. Stay apart if it helps you keep your heads cool," he addressed the dwarfs. "We _will_ discuss this further, and find a solution. There is no need to, as Lord Tol has said, nearly kill yourselves off over it."

The company started slowly disbanding. Dobbin with his side from the fight rushed off to the west wing dining room, most likely to have their own tea. It was very wise of him to clear the scene; Tazzik was not one to do it himself, and further conflict, even if it were just an exchange of quips, would no doubt aggravate the High King and make the proposed finding of a solution more difficult. Thornbut tarried behind, most likely with the intention of inquiring after Peridan's health. It was rather ridiculous, really; Thornbut was probably much worse hurt than him. Not even accounting for Methos' healing; the bruises and scratches on the dwarf's face did not look good. Methos indicated to him, hopefully in no ambiguous way, to skedaddle after Dobbin. Thornbut, thankfully, showed wisdom similar to the red dwarf and did just that.

King Edmund could not be rid off of that easily, though.

"Are you all right, Peridan?" he asked.

Methos nodded mutely. He did not know what he could possibly say. Edmund was not the prying sort, however, and that nod was clearly good enough for him.

"Go and have something to eat," he told him. "I think we will need you to keep minutes of the upcoming meeting; it is guaranteed to be a busy one."

"Yes, Your Majesty,'" Methos said, bowed slightly and walked away in Dobbin's and Thornbut's footsteps.

* * *

Peter saw with relief that fighting was averted for the time being. The dwarfs divided into several groups and did not quarrel any more, although it was obvious that the argument was only postponed. The other people in the courtyard followed suit, going after their own work or meals (with the exception of Mrs Beaver who went with his own group part of the way, claiming she had left something in the library). The promise of a set time and place where they could once more observe the happenings no doubt helped some of the onlookers vacate the scene for now. Others were simply glad to leave the matter in someone else's, more qualified hands.

Well, "qualified" was a relative term. He was wondering how four children of school age could possibly solve such a conundrum for others. But then, Aslan had trusted them with that power; they would have to trust Aslan that they would find a solution eventually.

He also realised that Peridan had not once looked at Lucy during the whole ordeal, which surprised him, considering the time the two of them had been spending together recently. They had seemed to be good friends, as good as Peridan would allow in his consciousness of his lower status, anyway. He had been much more open with her than most humans in a similar position were, actually (Edmund was onto something when he had said that Peridan would hate to play adult to them); it made his behaviour now very obviously strange.

"Did you argue with Peridan? Were you mad at him, or something?" he asked his sister as they walked to his study to their own tea. "He seemed to avoid you."

"Oh, not at all," Lucy said. "He was quite amazing, really. The way he helped Thornbut when Tazzik attacked him, only to be hit himself, poor man."

"He was very rude, too," Mrs Beaver added serenely.

"Well," Peter conceded, "I do not rightly know what _I_ would say in such a situation!"

"Oh, I am quite sure you would not say _that_ ," Lucy giggled. Peter winced at the thought of his little sister being present when such sort of strong language had been thrown about, and for a short moment, he was suddenly quite mad at Peridan himself.

" _What_ did he say?" Edmund inquired.

"I am not telling," Lucy said, cheerfully but firmly. " _Someone_ in this family should remain innocent!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm not telling either, because a) I'm not very rude myself, b) it's more fun this way anyway. (And c), Lucy just would not tell, would she?)
> 
> If you've read it over at FF.net, you may have noticed I made some very slight changes in this chapter. It's because Heliopause's confusion about the original version made it clear to me that I did not sufficiently describe the situation and Peter's thoughts about it when Peter arrives. I hope it is a bit clearer now.
> 
> When it comes to the injustices of an educational system, "The Wall" is so obvious a reference that I think it would immediately spring to Methos' mind as well. (I'm only familiar with the song, by the way.) He explicitly mentions Queen and Bruce Springsteen on the show, so I think he could know Pink Floyd, too. :-)


	12. In which our hero keeps minutes

**Chapter 12**

**In which our hero keeps minutes**

 

Queen Susan had been occupied with the re-decorating of a set of guest rooms in the southern wing, intended as a suite for foreign dignitaries. She wanted to make sure that everything was as perfect as it could be, from the carpets to the lamps and paintings on the walls and ceiling _–_ she employed the goat Buckleap to give the final approval on the latter.

"I feared it would be dizzying," Buckleap said. "But the Monkeys seem to have toned down their palette considerably, thankfully. It is just perfect."

"Bella has taken over," Susan said.

The Squirrel Monkeys' first collaborative attempt at painting a room had ended in a disaster of colours. Only then had it turned out that the males as well as some females were colour-blind. Bella Whitefloss, one of the females with the same colour vision humans had, had started supervising her fellow painters after that initial catastrophe. The results were much more pleasing to the human eye now. The same apparently went for goats as well.

Susan was disturbed from her musings on the best size of carpet for the largest bedroom by the arrival of a slightly distressed Reetseep.

"Your Majesty, could you come to the High King's study for tea? A very important thing will be talked about. The dwarfs were fighting; and it turns out some of them think their children should not be sent to school. The High King decided to call a council about it for after tea."

"Of course," Susan said, and followed Reetseep into the eastern wing. She started wondering why the dwarfs would be so opposed to school to even fight about it. Was it not usually the children who were displeased by school, and their parents who tried to persuade them that it was actually good for them?

* * *

The meeting in the Great Hall was gathering slowly. Dobbin, two other red dwarfs and Thornbut were already there when the Kings and Queens and their advisors arrived. So was Peridan. The other dwarfs came later, and beside them, many Beasts who apparently wanted to observe the proceedings. Peter did not object to their presence, and therefore neither did Susan. After what she had been told of the dwarfs' behaviour, she thought the presence of onlookers, as well as the presence of their sovereigns, might remind the dwarfs to remain as objective and peaceful as possible.

More dwarfs than those originally involved in the fight came, apparently in support of both camps.

"Welcome everyone," Peter stood up. "This meeting should concern the school system, especially the dwarfs' objections to it. But before we do that, I believe it is necessary to address another issue."

Susan observed Peridan now with some curiosity, because despite what had transpired, the man seemed very composed. How did he do it? He was sitting on a small chair to their right, with a thin board in his lap serving as a stand-in for a table, and dutifully jotting down with a pencil. He seemed a curious human version of Thunderbolt: the centaur, too, always used pencil for his council notes, claiming it was faster to keep minutes with it. Susan found herself agreeing with them: her own attempts at writing with a quill were always quite unfortunate, and even though someone with a better hang of the thing would no doubt achieve better results, it was not a style of writing conductive to speed.

"People were hurt in the courtyard," Edmund said. "The fight between the dwarfs is related to the issue we intend to discuss further and it seems the matter is too complicated for us to pass easy judgement for what has transpired. But to deliberately hurt a man who only tried to stop a fight that had already been stopped before and to help a person in need – that is a serious offence. Tazzik, your behaviour was out of bounds."

To Tazzik's credit, the black dwarf had enough decency to look ashamed and hang down his head.

"We believe, though, that forbidding you from participating in archery in the two weeks to come is enough of a punishment," Edmund added. Tazzik blushed fiercely, and nodded. Peridan looked rather confused, and somewhat ashamed, too. Susan wondered whether it was because of what she had heard about his reaction to Tazzik's offence. But she was convinced that had not really been the worst of the reactions – not when motivations were concerned.

"And you who were standing and watching," she said. "Mrs Beaver. From what I hear, I do not think your behaviour was worthy of a Lady. Laughing at someone else's suffering is not worthy of good Narnians. I doubt Aslan would be pleased with you all."

A lot of shuffling of limbs and hanging of heads and sorries followed; Susan was relieved to see that everyone present saw what had been wrong about that reaction.

"Make sure to keep this in mind," she said, just to be safe. "If you were in Peridan's place, how would you feel?"

Peridan seemed just as affected as the others, staring into his papers with deliberate consistency. Well, good for him. According to the others' account, that strong exclamation had really been the only action of his deserving of a rebuke, and even though that was certainly not worthy of a knight or one aspiring to be a knight, he had stopped himself before continuing in a similar vein, although he still must have been in pain. He clearly did not need admonishing to figure things out on his own.

Peter took the floor again.

"This whole argument was apparently concerned with the fact that we had unknowingly continued with a practice set up by the White Witch in schools. It turns out that we did not know what it had really been like during the Winter; so I would like to ask Sir Thunderbolt to sum it up for us and anyone who is not entirely clear on the subject."

Peter sat down again, and Thunderbolt began explaining, once more but in more detail, what he had told them before in Peter's study.

* * *

_Meeting in the Great Hall, IXth day of Grainreap in the year 1002_

_Subject: dwarfs and the educational system, objections to the latter_

_Meeting started by the High King at 5:45 PM_

_King Edmund: The fight between dwarfs not easy to judge. Tazzik forbidden to participate in archery for two weeks._

_Queen Susan: Onlookers admonished for having laughed._

_Thunderbolt explains how school system worked under the Witch:_

_\- originally not mandatory for everyone, only who wanted (x homeschooling)_

_\- Witch barred centaurs & others from attending at first_

_\- 15 years ago: homeschooling ground for old ideas passed down - school mandatory for everyone, incl. those who did not originally (partic. dwarfs and satyrs); Thunderbolt himself only homeschooled_

_High King suggests closer explanation from dwarfs how apprenticeship & homeschooling works for them & how school interferes_

_Smithkin: very detailed explanation of smithing. Apprentices start with cleaning & similar, watching & learning discipline. Then simple works, then more complicated. School makes watching and learning impossible. Ditto for regular work (housework from school unpredictable). Admits knowledge from school sometimes helps with designing & chemistry, but most knowledge not directly useful._

_Dobbin: most work in the gardens, incl. most knowledge, in spring and autumn when at school. Necessity to understand bulbs, pollination, etc. etc. (detailed explanation) Theory however learned in biology lessons at school and afternoons fine for practice._

_Tazzik: hunting not predictable, often at night. Dogs have to be taken care of regularly: work for apprentices. School: useless knowledge & ideas not suited for dwarfs_

_Thornbut: not every dwarf wants to be a hunter all their life_

_Taz. interrupts Thorn._

_Taz. called to order by High King, Thorn. instructed to stick to question for the time being_

_Edmund: How ideas not suited for dwarfs?_

_Taz.:literature, astronomy & physics etc. useless & over their heads_

_Smith.: physics good_

_Thorn.: literature good – provides examples of behaviour_

_Taz.: literature under Witch not good example_

_Thorn.: good bad example; not applicable now anyway; suggest Taz. write what dwarfs should behave like for other dwarfs to read (!)_

_Taz: can be told by parents_

_Dwarf crowd: Taz. has a point._

_Thun. & Tol: so does Thorn._

_Taz.: dwarfs not centaurs, learn better what they are told than what they read_

_Thorn. admits he read to younger sister & thus learnt_

_Sm. explains family ties & passing of knowledge best vehicle for learning for dwarfs_

_Dob.: but class discussion very good, brings new ideas & helps think & remember – employed in apprenticeship as well, but school good in that more than just dwarfs – esp. Dryads_

_Thorn.: and Beasts_

_Taz: admits there is a point about Beasts (esp. Dogs) !_

_Susan: What is school like for Beasts?_

_Beasts present agree school good, useful & even fun and definitely not the same it was under the Witch;Taz. some of the subjects remain, Beasts unsure. Mice (Reets. &Teeceek ?) excl. from questions about Witch_

_Mice not talking before?_

_Lucy: No prob for the Beasts going to school? No interfer. with usual act.?_

_Goat (Buck?): if enough food & time for so that they not eat the papers (much laughter from crowd)_

_Monkey (Bella W.): Beasts only now learning all things they can do, very exciting & enriching, e.g Monkeys painting – now children learning at school hist.& techn.& modelling, too (art lessons not under the Witch!)_

_More examples from the crowd (birds good at Geog., Hist. & Lit. popular, Math generally consid. eye-opening)_

_Thun.: once they did all kinds of things, e.g. Moonwood the H. a famous chronicler_

_Tum. (aside to Lucy): extraord. hearing, wrote down convers._

_HK calls order_

_Ed.: what subjects remain?_

_Thun. adm. maybe Hist. & Geo. not reconc. yet_

_Susan aghast at idea of not up-to-date info_

_Ed.: maybe physics not up-to-date either without knowing_

_Thorn.: lots of subjects stable (e.g. read. & writ., math), opport. for pers. advancem. not poss. in apprent._

_Taz. LOL at Thorn.; subjects dismissed – irrelevant, point in bad ideas put into heads not info as such, most useless in real life, families torn apart just like Thorn. - The Wall?_

_Taz. called to order by HK_

_Tol. ask what exact. Witch teach to be avoided now_

_Dob. unsure children good to ask or books left; Thorn. thinks he kept some, Taz. books burnt because bad ideas_

_Ed. suggest general mistrust not found in books_

_HK – relations betw. students & teachers, compet. & putting down, bullys...? – outsiders vs. in - thought control_

_Sm. & Taz. & Thorn. agree_

_Thun. - satyrs better to ask because more idea oriented_

_Taz. – centaurs best, har har_

_Sm. smack Taz._

_HK call Taz. & Sm. to order_

_TBC tomorrow 9:30 AM, satyrs included, bring new & old schoolbooks if not burned_

* * *

"Well, I guess it's time to retreat into your study again, Peter," Edmund said. "My, that was quite a lot!"

"We will review the meeting and your notes, Peridan," Peter turned to the scribe. Peridan looked startled.

"I... am not sure all of my notes are ready for reviewing," he said. "It got rather busy towards the end."

"I know," Peter said. "That is what your notes are for. We need to remember what exactly happened."

"Well, if Your Majesties will allow me to come and explain..." Peridan said.

"Of course," Susan assured him hurriedly; there was no need for him to be embarrassed further.

In the study, Peridan handed the notes over to Peter, who looked through them with the others and said "I see," when they were finished.

"What does 'TBC' and 'AM' stand for?" Tol asked.

"To be continued," Edmund offered tentatively.

"Ante meridiem," Thunderbolt explained.

Peridan nodded for both.

"And what does 'LOL' stand for?" Peter frowned in thought at the increasingly cryptic and messy notes.

"Um... laughing out loud," Peridan said, and Edmund, Lucy and Tumnus did just that at his explanation.

"The Wall?" Lucy asked curiously then.

"That..." Peridan trailed off. "That was me forgetting myself."

Thunderbolt raised his eyebrows at him in the exact same manner he did when he expected a better answer from one of the four of them in their lessons.

"It is... a metaphor. For being cut off from the world around you by what the school puts into your head," Peridan said. "It really was not supposed to go there... I kind of forgot I was keeping official notes." He suddenly looked very lost; Susan wondered what it must be like for him, being thrown into such a responsible position. Probably not that much different from what it had been like for them...

"That much is evident," Lord Tol said. "Next time, try and avoid all your personal remarks. And preferably most of the abbreviations as well."

"The abbreviations are all right," Peter said. "They made it possible to keep a very detailed account of the meeting, did they not?

"I really do not know how else he could keep up with the tempo at times!" Lucy agreed. "Whew, dwarfs do have fast tongues when they put their minds to it."

"I think you did a good job, Peridan – although you really should refrain from those personal remarks from now on," Edmund advised.

He was smiling; he must have actually enjoyed those personal remarks. Susan did mostly enjoy them as well – they offered a little more insight into the mystery of Peridan the man (as opposed to Peridan the dutiful servant). He was clearly truly efficient and intelligent if he was able to put the conversation into such brief and succinct notes on the spot (sometimes, what he had put into a single sentence had taken the speaker much longer to express or had not even been expressed directly); but the "personal remarks" also revealed that he thought about the implications for relationships between people, which she liked.

There was, however, also a slightly alarming sarcastic streak to him. She was a bit offended by the comment "Susan aghast at idea of not up-to-date info" – they had all been shocked by Thunderbolt's admission, because he was always so conscientious about their own lessons. So what if she had been most vocal about it? She was a woman. She had a right to crying out at times. At least she had still been polite about it, unlike him!

They dismissed him afterwards, and he looked relieved to leave. When all was said and done, she felt more sorry for him than anything else.

* * *

That day really had not been one of his brighter moments. First that incident in the courtyard, making painfully clear to everyone including himself that no matter how hard he had tried in the previous weeks, he really was no knight. And now the notes. Once more, his habits had gotten the better of him. Writing notes: that was usually a very personal act, putting down what he was learning.

And he had learned a great deal at that meeting. Unfortunately, he could not keep the notes for himself and did not have much time to think about it or ask more relevant questions from people like Reetseep (who was apparently not alone among the Mice in having only learned to speak recently; how frustrating it was not to be able to learn why Mice of all people!).

His days were not getting any less busy. He was, again, keeping the minutes the following day (this time, with very careful concentration on writing _minutes_ , not _notes_ ). It turned out that satyrs (he had not met any properly before) were just as family-minded as dwarfs. Their work was solely focused on growing wine, an occupation they shared – or rather competed in – with fauns. Satyrs, apparently, passed the knowledge down strictly in families and were much more thorough and discriminating about it than fauns. They had kept the knowledge in memory during the whole hundred years of winter, always hoping for a change in climate (political as well as ecological), which was one of the reasons why Jadis had tried to break up their society. The other reason was related: these beings had apparently kept some old Narnian harvest traditions going, even though there had been no harvest, providing opportunities for other Narnians to gather and exchange old stories and share in the old faith. It had provided a basis for the underground movement that had eventually joined Aslan upon his arrival (Thunderbolt had been one of the leaders, Methos knew now) and formed the network that had allowed Mr Tumnus to pass information about the four human children to the Beavers, who had then taken them to Aslan, too. And Jadis had quite correctly feared such a network.

Methos wondered if by any chance some Narnians had once found their way to his world, to account for the mythology. Greeks and Romans had got most of their facts about satyrs wrong, though. There was certainly the wine, and vaguely their looks – but they were very decent people as they stood in front of the kings and queens, not wild at all. That decency was actually another thing beside the general outlook they shared with fauns. The difference was that fauns were much more dedicated to the arts, particularly music and dance. Satyrs usually lived in larger, partially nomadic settlements (alternating between summer and winter settlements); fauns, though very sociable, lived only by nuclear families, most often in (well-furnished) caves. It was, perhaps, this distinction that had led to the difference in their views of school as well: fauns mostly saw it as a good excuse to meet other people, while satyrs felt it distracted them from their true purpose in life, that of growing wine and teaching others about Narnian traditions.

But that discussion with satyrs was only the beginning. The more details were revealed, the more questions were asked: of the dwarfs, of the satyrs, of the fauns, the centaurs, the dryads and naiads, the birds and mammals and serpents and amphibians. And humans. Letters were sent to other parts of the country to enquire about the same questions from other people. The issue suddenly involved such varied subjects as the possibility of founding school canteens at some of the schools or the distribution of schools throughout the country as such (the settlement patterns had changed considerably in the two years with the re-establishment of country manors and small townships like Beruna as local centres, as opposed to the highly centralised regime during the Winter).

And Methos had to write down most of it.

He soon realised that the one asking the most (and the most apt) questions was Edmund. Peter was very good at being the overall authority to keep everyone in check (no more fights occurred) and make the final decisions on various issues; but he lacked some of Edmund's finesse in directing a conversation to relevant topics. Susan mostly limited herself to practical questions (she took over the school canteen business with admirable verve and competence, considering how different the dietary requirements of various students were). Lucy very soon grew tired of the long councils and started running off into the gardens (this time without Peridan) and elsewhere, often only coming back for the review sessions in the evenings. Her argument (which did have some merit) was that she could not keep up anyway and someone had to make sure the castle kept going. Mr Tumnus accompanied her, while Tol often disappeared for reasons Methos was not sure about, leaving only Thunderbolt behind.

But even though Edmund's questions were apt, sometimes there were simply too many of them, and too many details and tangential matters to wade through. Even though it had only been a few days, Methos began to wonder if they would ever reach a solution – and whether it would be a solution to the initial problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While searching for animals with interesting eyesight for the painting, I ran into the fact that goats with their rectangular pupils have a much wider field of vision than beings with round pupils. Isn't that fascinating? I love little facts like these. Especially seeing as I did wonder, at one point, why goats' eyes look like that. Squirrel monkeys, Wikipedia tells me, are used in research into colour blindness, precisely because of what I wrote in the story. (I did not understand all of it, because biological terminology is not my strong suit.) As far as I am able to determine, goats have fairly normal colour vision. They're also famous for eating paper.
> 
> Any spelling and similar mistakes in the notes are likely there on purpose. Elsewhere is fair game for your nitpicking.
> 
> I am, sometimes, inclined to put sarcastic remarks into my school notes. Once upon a time, I wrote "ha, ha" next to philosophical theories I considered ridiculous. (I don't remember much of it anymore.)
> 
> And look, abbreviations! Maybe that's where DLF springs from. :D
> 
> If you love the wild nature of fauns and satyrs, do not despair! Methos does not know everything! There is, however, a very middle class "decent" side to Mr Tumnus and his family, with the books, the portrait of his father... so I tried to come up with ways for that to make sense with the way fauns behave elsewhere.


	13. In which our hero discusses knighthood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot something in the previous notes (again): Moonwood the Hare and his extraordinary hearing is lifted from Lewis' timeline and the Narnia Wiki; so I suppose it's an established fact. The fact that he wrote down conversations and became a famous chronicler is mine.

**Chapter 13**

**In which our hero discusses knighthood**

 

On the morning of the twelfth of August (it was a Friday), Methos rushed into the main courtyard on his way to the Great Hall, where they had all taken to having breakfast to save time before the councils, only to be stopped by the sight of Garvan. Accompanied by a number of his people (both humans and Beasts), the lord was dismounting from his horse in the middle of the courtyard.

"Hello there, Peridan!" Garvan boomed. "Where are you headed so fast?"

"Breakfast," Methos said, coming closer. "Welcome, Lord Garvan! That is an unexpected pleasure, seeing you here again."

"What, no one has told you?" Garvan wondered. "The preparations have been going on for quite some time now!"

"What preparations?" Methos asked, puzzled.

"For Queen Lucy's birthday, of course! – You are not participating in the competition, then? Pity; I thought we could measure our skills. Gar has unfortunately just broken his arm, irresponsible young lad that he is, and had to stay at home."

Gar, Methos dimly recalled, was Garvan's oldest son.

"No one has told me about the preparations, and I have no idea what competition," Methos said. "We have been very busy with the school system recently."

"Ah, that," Garvan said. "What a messy affair. Why would anyone fight because of _school_?"

It was a curious reflection of what Tol had said. Methos, for the first time, wondered about the school systems outside of Narnia – what were these people's experiences like? He was not sure he wanted to ask the question, though; it could lead to questions being asked of him.

"What is this competition you mentioned?" he asked instead.

"Archery," Garvan replied. "Many types of archery skills will be tested, all for the enjoyment of the Queen, of course. I was already told about the plans last time I was at the court, and received an express invitation from the Kings and Lord Tol, for myself and my household, three days ago."

So _that_ must have been what Tol had been running away for, Methos realised. And most likely, no one had told Peridan because he had been with Lucy most of the time and then everyone had just got too busy. He did not feel quite good about being left out of something everyone else now seemed to know about; but if he was frank with himself, he had to admit he probably would have stayed out anyway, even if he had been told.

"I would not be much use in an archery competition," he said. "Though I might make a good source of enjoyment for others."

Garvan laughed heartily.

"You do not have a very high opinion of yourself," he said; and Methos was thrown back to some of his more recent, less pleasant musings.

"My high opinions of myself have been rather crushed recently," he admitted. "I still have much to learn."

"Well, that never hurt anyone," Garvan said. "I have been there myself. So, breakfast?"

* * *

Tazzik's punishment suddenly made a lot more sense. It was certainly a very proper and just punishment for the proud dwarf to be banned from exercising what he was good at in a public competition. He had revelled in being the centre of attention during the incident; so they had made him step away from the limelight. Nothing more; and it was more than enough. They had quite correctly gone after the motivation. And it made Methos wonder about his own.

He had been unfair to them. Unfair in his reflections of the situation, to Lucy and Peter both. It was _him_ who was likely to laugh at someone else's expense and take advantage of a situation to further his plans. They had been concerned about him. And punished Tazzik and admonished the others because of him. And never said a word about his own offence.

It was a lot like a miniature version of getting off the hook for the whole Four Horsemen business fairly easily with the Highlander. He had never fully realised just how easy that had been. In spite of all his regrets of various aspects of that awful episode, he had been so sure of himself and of Duncan's trust. Nothing of it was for granted. Not Duncan's friendship, and definitely not himself. He had only turned away from his old ways because, in spite of everything, Duncan had trusted him. He had gone and promised Kronos to kill Duncan, for goodness' sake! What had he been thinking? That it did not matter, all those centuries when he had tried to become someone else? He had dropped that idea very quickly, so it could not have been the main motivation. That he could guard himself against his own word? It was nothing short of a miracle that he had. He could not even retain common decency, after weeks of hard trying and _centuries_ of fairly unobtrusive and civilised behaviour, without anything explicitly binding him against such decency. Deep down inside, he was still just a raider who took what he liked, never mind how or whom he hurt in the process. He had been telling himself that what he wanted was to live and let live. But he had been more than willing to muddy up the let live part whenever it suited his whims.

And next to him, Garvan was gushing about archery, trying to teach him some fine points of it, and he had not really been listening. Confound it.

* * *

Peridan, Garvan realised, was too absentminded to absorb the information he was giving him. He had murmured consent twice, to two opposites; it was very unlike him not to pay attention to what he was saying.

"Is this school business really so serious?" Garvan asked. "I am sorry to disturb you."

"No – No!" Peridan said hastily. "I mean, yes, it _is_ serious, but you are not disturbing me in the least. I should be glad of the distraction. I _am._ It is just..." He trailed off, apparently unsure of how much he wanted to say.

"You do not have to tell me," Garvan said graciously. "There is much in the workings of the court I do not know about."

"Neither do I. It has nothing to do with the court. Not directly, anyway."

"Then what is it?"

"Well, let's just say... I'm wondering what it _really_ means to be a knight."

"Ah," Garvan said. "I see. That is not something you could have learned in Telmar, what knighthood is for someone serving Aslan – is it?"

"No," Peridan said, with visible relief at how quickly Garvan had grasped the subject. "There are matters of valour and chivalry and such like; but it all seems rather superficial in the end."

"You are not a knight yet," Garvan said.

"Very clearly not," Peridan said. "I thought I had been nearly there; and formally, I had been – but there is too much I do not understand at all, and cannot bring myself to do."

He took a deep breath.

"You all shame me. You accepted me, a complete stranger. _You_ gave me a horse. The kings and queens gave me a place to live, sustenance and clothes and work to do. Thunderbolt is doing his best to teach me. I am not at all like that."

Garvan looked at him in surprise. It was a very honest, soul-searching admission; and especially surprising from Peridan who, as far as Garvan could observe, had always been doing his best to help others.

"Let us stay out here a little longer," he said. They both sat down on the steps leading to the first floor, and once the others went past them to the Great Hall, Garvan continued. "You are teaching Arminius, I hear."

It was not the only thing he had heard; he had overheard Reetseep mentioning to other Mice how nice Peridan had been to him. And there was, of course, Thornbut whose case Peridan had taken for his own from the first moment.

"I use it as an excuse to practise my own swordsmanship," Peridan said bitterly.

Garvan chuckled.

"We all do at times," he said. "I would not be surprised if Thunderbolt used his lessons as an excuse to learn himself, and practise his own rhetoric."

"Was you giving me Tira an excuse to practise your magnanimity, Lord Garvan?" Peridan asked with certain sharpness to his tone. It was more like him; but that sort of suspicion did not befit a knight well, and his problem apparently lay somewhere there.

"Well, a knight should not shy away from such opportunities," Garvan said thoughtfully. "Because when you do not practise, you get rusty."

Peridan deflated.

"I am very rusty," he said.

"Then keep practising," Garvan said. "Do not let initial setbacks discourage you."

"And that is it?" Peridan asked, somewhat sarcastically. "Try harder, it will come to you? Try harder, you will learn equations, try harder, you will remember all the rivers' names, try harder, you will be a knight?"

So young and impatient, Garvan thought. Like I was, like Gar is. Wanting to understand everything at once. And so lost, without the faith in Aslan to guide him and give him the necessary patience.

"It forms a large part of it," he said aloud. "It certainly is what _keeps_ you being a knight, most of the time. But of course, one only becomes a knight with the kings' and Aslan's grace."

"That is not something I can do anything about."

"Of course it is not," Garvan said. "That is really part of the point, I believe. Being a knight is a privilege and a duty. You are given the privilege, and you have the duty to live up to its promises. It may be given as a reward, but that is only a start. – But once you are given the privilege, some things become easier."

"How is that?"

"For one thing, you no longer have to prove to anyone, and that includes yourself, that you are worthy of being a knight. You simply have to prove that you _are_ one. I find, myself, that the knowledge is usually enough to push me in the right direction, even if I do not feel worthy."

Peridan nodded thoughtfully.

"I think I see what you mean... It was part of what I was thinking about."

"And that is?"

"That you all treat me like a knight, and I cannot help but behave like one. But there was unfortunately also the other part, that no matter how much I try... there but for the grace of... Aslan... go I. – I still cannot bring myself to think in those terms, though."

"You have never met Aslan, have you?" Garvan asked quietly.

"No."

"I have," Garvan said, recalling that first encounter soon after his arrival to Narnia. It had shaken up his world quite a bit; but it had also made some of his convictions even stronger. "There is nothing quite like it. In some ways... I realised how insignificant I really was; but He told me to keep being a good knight in His name, and do good unto others in His name; and I am doing my best. I still fail occasionally. I certainly failed when I first met you, and were King Edmund like me, you would not have received such a warm welcome."

Peridan remained silent.

"But it is not all grave," Garvan added, smiling. "He forgives our trespasses, though I can't begin to comprehend how, and gives us much occasion for joy."

He stood up, because his stomach was reminding him that they had been postponing the breakfast. He held out his hand to Peridan to help him stand up as well; but the young man remained sitting, still staring into the distance and overlooking the offered hand.

"What if there is too much to forgive?" he asked.

"He forgave King Edmund," Garvan pointed out: "You _have_ heard the story. If a traitor can live and do penance and become a just king, I do not see what could be impossible."

After still more silence, Peridan contorted his face into something between a frown and a smirk; he grasped the hand and stood up, too.

"Did I help?" Garvan asked.

"Somewhat," Peridan replied. "Thank you, Lord Garvan."

"Then I guess 'somewhat' is what I have to content myself with," Garvan said.

* * *

There were bits and pieces scattered throughout what Garvan was telling him that rang a bell, alarmingly. Bits and pieces he had heard before, from Duncan, Darius (even though centuries had passed between his encounters with Darius and his encounters with the Highlander, he had laughed at both of them very often, he recalled bitterly), and many other people. Bits and pieces he had often at one point thought of himself. But it had all been covered up by many other impressions and experiences; experiences that had made him think he knew what life was all about – not necessarily what sense there was to it, but how to behave to get as far as possible, live as long as possible. He had been lying to himself. He did not know. He did not even know what his own life was all about. It was still a jumbled mess, like a string knotted up on itself; whichever way he tried to pull it out, it only tightened up elsewhere. He would realise why he had done something at one point only to start wondering where _that_ reason had started and arrive to another point where he was not sure of his own behaviour and motivations. And what really mattered was what he would do from now on; he had simply too many of such memories to delve into and detangle. Yet he could not trust to understand himself if he did not.

And he still did not rightly know what being a knight _really_ meant. He had used that as an easy recourse for explaining away his absentmindedness in this environment, only to realise how close it actually was to his real problem. He did not fit in; not because he came from a different world, but because he thought differently, reacted differently, treated others differently. Duncan would be in his own element in Narnia. Why had it had to be him instead?

And here's my lesson, he realised when he had arrived at that thought. _Someone_ is probably currently having a right good laugh at my expense...

... no, that's precisely it, isn't it? Someone is not having a right good laugh; someone is, metaphorically speaking, tearing their hair out at my dim-wittedness. Here I am, the man supposedly clever enough to having avoided being beheaded for millennia, and after eight or how many weeks in this impossible place, I _finally_ realise it all revolves around me not being a knight and not understanding what being a knight is like. I could have deduced as much if I had paid more attention at the re-enactments, without having to be thrown into an alternate universe. Go me.

There was just so much that stopped him from embracing that particular lifestyle. All the times he had lived through; all the things he had done. There were those tenets of chivalry he found himself fundamentally disagreeing with. If he was left completely to his own devices, he would not bother at all.

But in this environment, he could not. With these people, he could not. They were incredibly nice to him; the least he could do was to try and be the man they believed him to be – just like the least he could do for Duncan had been not to fail his trust. (And how gracious Duncan had been about the whole business, still allowing _him_ to lecture him! Come to think of it, so had Joe, despite all his snark.) So far, so good. Except that it was such a hard work to be that man when he really was not. Peridan was proving to be the most difficult of his identities to date. And he had thought it had been so easy to slip into that identity without any of the official hassle that identities involved in early 21st century! Just how wrong could one man be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be about the competition. But there were things Methos needed to wonder about and ask, and things Garvan had to say. So it's become this instead.


	14. In which our hero does more scribing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so I catch up with myself. This one is new. From now on, the updates here may not be as frequent... most likely won't be.

**Chapter 14**

**In which our hero does more scribing**

 

Methos and Garvan arrived to the Great Hall late; there were more lords from around the country present already and most people were finishing their meals by now. The breakfast that day was much more of a feast than was the wont – Mrs Beaver had apparently decided that a special occasion deserved special treatment on all fronts. After all, how often does one turn ten? Methos knew from some of his experience with children how important that day could be; and felt a pang of regret over not knowing what _his_ tenth birthday had been like. He did not overly mind not celebrating birthdays _now_ ; but he also knew, somehow, that back when he had been ten it had not been a big deal and that he may have enjoyed it more had it been, and maybe his life could have turned out differently. He berated himself inwardly for thinking like _that other Methos_ ; but the fact was, he simply could not get over how beaming and how congenial Lucy was – and how everyone around her seemed to reflect that light in her. He was glad for her and all her contemporaries that they got to celebrate their birthdays this way. Yes, some children _could_ be spoiled, demanding selfish brats. Queen Lucy, however, still seemed genuinely surprised that it was all done because of her, even though it must have been going on for some time now. She was then even more surprised when Peter and Edmund finally formally announced the competition upon Garvan’s arrival.

“Oh, so _that’s_ why everyone’s come!” the younger queen exclaimed delightedly. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Methos did not hear more, though, indeed did not even get a chance to observe Garvan giving the Queen his formal salutations or possibly congratulate her himself; because at that moment, Lord Tol approached him.

“Here you are, Peridan,” he said. “Could you go to the tournament field and help Sir Thunderbolt and my scribe write down the names of those who would enter the competition, as soon as possible? It is to start in an hour.” Even though it was phrased like a question, it was really a command.

“Oh,” Methos said. “Yes, sure.” He recalled having seen some plans for the establishment of the tournament grounds south of the castle earlier in the previous weeks. He had never had a reason to go to the place yet (he went north to the river mouth much more often), but at least he did not have to ask for directions.

“Put a clean tunic on before you go,” Tol added, pointing out an ink stain on his sleeve. “In this state, you would be a poor example of the Queen’s Grace to the country people.”

Methos bit back a remark about having had no idea of the necessity to be an example half a minute ago; he quickly gulped down some tea and toast, tried to say “farewell” to Garvan and found out the lord was otherwise occupied; and then he hurried back to the west wing to change into a clean tunic, if there was one to be found in his chest, silently fuming over them lordly folks’ lack of regard for his dietary needs. (Which really meant that he was annoyed that he had missed out on the exquisite breakfast, not that he was too terribly hungry at the moment.)

He could not remain angry for too long, though. When, after some fifteen minutes of frenetic activity and running (despite the pressure for time, he decided against riding, because he would most likely have no time to care for Tira afterwards), he arrived to the tournament grounds in a reasonably clean tunic, Thunderbolt welcomed him from far away, with visible relief:

“Thank the Lion you came, Peridan!”

He and Tol’s scribe were working at two small tables at the edge of the field, with long, long queues of potential competitors in front of them. More precisely, they were two queues for the length of about six people; beyond that, it simply became a crowd. It seemed that the only thing keeping the crowd from spilling over and completely overwhelming the scribes was a rather flimsy rope railing; it was a credit to the Narnians that most of them respected that barrier. The seats of the wooden auditorium were already filling, too. Methos had never before seen so many different Narnians in one place – not even in the councils. It was a flurry of furs, feathers, scales, hair, skin and bark of various colours and textures, and clothes, too: from bright-coloured silky fabrics on some to drab brown linen on others. He even saw beings he had not seen before. (There were more head-scratchers of the non-Old-World type: he could see Kangaroos and Macaws, among others. The most striking addition to his internal catalogue of Narnians, however, was probably a group of tall, lanky, vaguely human-like, vaguely frog-like people with greenish-greyish skin and thick hair of similar colour, who, despite the merry occasion and abounding excitement all around, all looked even sourer than Thornbut’s usual countenance. Maybe that was the expression of joy with their kind; whatever _that_ was.) There were also other attendants, and just like Thunderbolt and the other scribe, dressed in white accented with Queen Lucy’s colours, green and yellow-gold. Those were trying to retain some semblance of order, directing the competitors who had already been signed in to various places further on in the grounds according to where and when they were supposed to compete. Had these attendants not been differentiated by the colours they wore, some of them would have no doubt achieved nothing in the hubbub, because when a Hare tries to command a Bear or a Minotaur in a crowded place, the results are likely to be less than desired.

Methos cautiously came nearer, wondering where all these archers had come from; Thunderbolt was already explaining the situation to him:

“We thought we could manage just with Arnelf here -” – Lord Tol’s scribe gave him a curt nod from beyond Thunderbolt’s left arm and turned back to the Badger he was enrolling – “- but there are so many people; many have brought their entire families, which we did not expect. It would take us too long. We hoped we could give you the day off, after all the work you have done recently; I am sorry we cannot.”

“It is no problem,” Methos said, and leapt over the ropes. He had not counted on having a day off anyway; had he got it, it would have been a pleasure and a privilege, but certainly not an entitlement. And this could actually prove to be an excellent opportunity to learn more about the various people who lived in Narnia.

He was then thrown to the mercy of a Dryad and a Reed Warbler, who quickly stitched two ribbons of the Queen’s colours onto his tunic (while he was in it); and at the same time, he had to absorb Thunderbolt’s crash course on how the enrolment worked. There were three types of competition planned: bows, longbows and crossbows. These disciplines were then divided further into groups according to the competitors’ size. However, the size rule did not apply a hundred percent, because dwarfs with bows and crossbows competed in the same group with humans and similar larger people – dwarfs were a very strong nation and tended to use almost human-sized bows. But dwarfs’ actual size was reflected in their shorter longbows, not that bigger than their regular bows (Methos was immediately foreseeing a lot of confusion as to which type of bow one was dealing with) – and thus, in that particular discipline, they were competing with people closer to their own size (like fauns or human and Dryad children).

Peridan was given another small table, a stool to sit on and writing utensils and some papers; he quickly copied Thunderbolt’s forms – Name, People (optional), Place of Origin, Type of Bow, Group – and before he was finished, a third queue was already formed in front of him. He got into the routine fairly quickly; the fact that the other two scribes were working with the same detached efficiency helped him.

Some time later, he noticed that Thunderbolt was giving a remarkably warm welcome to a family of Red Dwarfs: father, mother and three sons, all with bows and all dressed in hardwearing homespun woollens that looked way too warm for the hot summer day this Friday was forming into. From the snippets of their conversation that he caught in between his own interrogation of a Monkey, the dwarfs came from Stormness Vast – that mountainous region at the borders with Archenland where Thunderbolt himself hailed from. That would explain the warm welcome.

Methos did not catch more, though, because his next client in line was most unexpected even for Narnian standards.

 

* * *

 

 There had been no question whether they should go. An invitation signed by the Kings themselves, written in Sir Thunderbolt’s unmistakable hand, with Lord Tol’s signature tucked at the end – such a thing cannot be turned down. They had remembered them! And the opportunities – to see the Aslan-appointed Kings and Queens, to show their archery skill to other Narnians and to see half of Narnia on the way! They were all excited, so of course they had gone.

Just the sight of Cair Paravel and the tournament grounds would have been enough to justify that journey. There were so many people there, and more were coming – much more than they had expected; it was quite overwhelming. All these archers about to compete with them. All the people to prove their skills in front of. All the courtiers in the latest fashions. (Brierbell took careful note of what the local Dwarf ladies were wearing for such a special occasion, while Rogin kept on a lookout for the cut and embroidery of the young Dwarf men’s hose and hoods and did not fail to eagerly point out how close his own were. Dibble and Duffle were not amused.) And all these Men – there were certainly more of them than all Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve in Stormness Vast put together. It was a slightly disconcerting sight, still unusual to their eyes. The similarities were almost as striking as the differences. Tall men and women in sleek, colourful clothes; as tall as some Naiads, but more, if such a word could be used, sturdy, more of the earth, flesh and bone, more like dwarfs in that respect. The men were usually smooth-shaven, though, and the women often wore their hair braided into elaborate hairstyles. But it was amazing to see all these people together, and then all the bright flags flying in the sea breeze, Queen Lucy’s colours on banners everywhere, the four standards of the four rulers with Queen Lucy’s higher than the others; and above it all, the green flag of Narnia with its red Lion. It was the first time they had seen it flown anywhere so openly and proudly.

“This is what we fought for,” Dibble said with satisfaction, and not just for his sons’ sake.

And to top it off, it was Sir Thunderbolt himself who welcomed them to Cair Paravel and signed them into the competition, asking after everyone back home as he did so. Even though he was now one of the most important people in the country and always away at the court, he clearly did not think too much of himself to do that, which they were glad to observe. He had not forgotten that the people of Stormness Vast had always helped him with his work during the Winter. He commented on how Duffle, Rogin and Bricklethumb had grown, approved Brierbell’s new bow, and told them where to go afterwards and whom to turn to if they needed to know more. So they, in turn, asked how he was and (this was, of course, Dibble asking) how was the whole school problem everyone spoke of these days coming along. Thunderbolt, now writing down their names and everything, expressed his honest belief that it would turn out just fine, because Their Majesties knew what they were doing.

“Thunderbolt, can I ask -” the young Man at Thunderbolt’s right interrupted them at that point.

“Yes, Peridan?” Thunderbolt asked, still absorbed in his writing.

“Where do recurve bows go?” Peridan asked. “And where do Kinglets go?”

That captured Thunderbolt’s attention – and theirs as well. There were, of course, birds in the audience, but you were highly unlikely to find a bird archer. Yet, there she was: hovering in the air in front of the younger scribe was a tiny she-Goldcrest grasping a tiny recurve bow (quite a masterpiece of woodwork, Dibble noted appreciatively) in her tiny talons and carrying a tiny quiver with arrows across her chest. She was rather ruffled up, looking at them all challengingly, as if saying “Try to send me away! Just try!”

They did not. Instead, Thunderbolt and Peridan started discussing the possibilities – coming suspiciously close to an argument, too. Even though he had asked for Thunderbolt’s advice, the man called Peridan had very much his own opinion on the subject, arguing that the recurve bow was as good as a longbow, so that was where Twinkletop, the bird, should compete. But Thunderbolt ruled for regular bows in the end. Neither Peridan nor, indeed, Twinkletop herself seemed satisfied with that decision, but they submitted to his word.

The dwarfs left together with Twinkletop, because they, too, were competing with regular bows and were going in the same direction.

“Who made your bow, Mistress Twinkletop?” Dibble asked the Kinglet. “It is quite the piece.”

“Oh, a Woodpecker friend of mine,” she said. “She is very good with wood, you see.”

“Of course,” Dibble nodded.

“The design is fairly unusual,” Brierbell said.

“It is an Archenlander design,” Twinkletop explained. “We live at the borders, at the sea, and they come often and we exchange ideas.”

“So you are used to Humans,” Duffle said.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Of course, they did not come in the Winter, but we could still occasionally see them at sea, and they started coming first thing when the Spring came. Fishermen and merchants and craftsmen. We are good friends now.”

“We live at the borders as well,” Brierbell said, “but we do not see the Archenlanders as often. It might be the mountains. Some merchants come, and of course, the King came last year -”

“King Lune!” Twinkletop exclaimed. “Well, _that_ must have been something!”

“It was; they came to see Starspell the centaur, and stayed at Stormness Fast for a week,” Dibble said. “But we scarcely see so many Men usually; Lord Tol stays here at the court most of the year, and so does a large part of his household. It is rather weird to see so many of them here. Like the two scribes.”

“Well, it is hardly their fault that we Narnians are not so good at writing – yet,” Brierbell retorted brusquely.

“My dear, I am not complaining at all,” Dibble said. “Unlike some, I do not mind a bit of change!”

“That one – Peridan – seemed very nice; wasn’t he, Twinkletop?” Brierbell said, appeased.

Twinkletop exuded an air that suggested a smirk, even though it is impossible for birds to smirk.

“I am not sure ‘nice’ is the word I would use,” she said. “He is all steel, underneath. But a good kind of steel, I think.”

“How can you tell?” Bricklethumb wondered.

“Well, I _am_ used to humans,” Twinkletop replied. “He would not budge to Sir Thunderbolt; not many people can do that. He respects him, but he would confront him if he believed him really wrong. And that is good, I think. If it was not for people like that, we would still be obeying the White Witch, would we not?”

“If it were not for Aslan,” Dibble said firmly.

“Well, that, too,” Twinkletop said. “Anyway, we may still need someone like that.”

“The Kings and Queens are good,” Rogin argued.

“Oh, the Kings and Queens for sure,” Twinkletop said. “But have you ever not wondered if they are not _too_ good? They are children. They do not know much of what life is like yet, do they? That one, he knows. He knows all too well for his age, I think.”

“You are forgetting that the Kings have already seen battle,” Dibble said.

“You are a tough one, are you not?” Brierbell remarked to Twinkletop.

“My dear Mistress Dwarf, if you are a bird woman determined to be the best archer there is, you have to be,” Twinkletop retorted. “I do not only have to be good at archery, I also have to make sure I understand people and can make them do what I want – because too many of them would only dismiss me. So, back to the intent of your original question – I did like Peridan. He, at least, was not dismissive. And that, I can tell you, is a rare trait in a human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This *Đ[đ®]n! chapter. (Insert optional curse; I like the visual one most.) This and the following one. It was supposed to be one chapter. It was not supposed to drag on like this. But it refused to cooperate. It insisted on being full of character introductions (and therefore new names) and exposure and worldbuilding and stuff, and on being two chapters. So here goes. I’m comforted by the fact that I’m still – hopefully – dedicating less chapters to the competition than Walter Scott did in _Ivanhoe_.  
>  I do not know much about archery, aside from having tried my hand at it, very recreatively, a few times. I have shot a longbow, but not a recurve. So if my assumption that recurve bows could be equal to longbows is wrong – well, you can chalk it up to Methos’ lack of recent experience in the field as well, I suppose.


	15. In which our hero takes a part in a competition (but does not participate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I would like to thank everyone who commented and everything. It's good to hear from you and see what you like (and possibly do not like – that helps, too!).

**Chapter 15**

**In which our hero takes a part in a competition (but does not participate)**

 

Of course, they started late.

There was no way they could have sorted all the competitors into their groups in time; and what was more, the Queens and Kings came late, too, engrossed in a conversation with the other aristocrats that turned out to be concerning the school system. Edmund apparently could not let it go, not even on such a day as this.

As the tetrarchs and lords and ladies of various persuasion settled into their seats on the main gallery, Thunderbolt joined Lord Tol in front of it. On the other side of the field, another tribune had been raised, where a tall satyr stepped out now. He was wearing a bright blue and red sash, had a wooden sword at his side and held a tambourine in his right hand. A jester, Methos thought. He himself was sitting at his wobbly table, next to Arnelf, and not that far away from the jester's tribune, as he had been roped into writing down the scores as well.

Trumpets flourished, and when the cheerful yet solemn call ended, the satyr beat his tambourine, loudly and disorderly, clearly providing the sort of counterpoint that was expected from his office. Then Thunderbolt spoke out:

"Your Majesties, Ladies and Lords, people of the Eastern Shores, of the Northern Marshes, the Central Plains, people of Southern Highlands and Stormness Vast, the Lantern Waste and the Western March, dear cousins all: welcome to this archery competition held in honour of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Lucy! Welcome to Cair Paravel!"

Another wild peal from the jester, and:

"We can only hope that in your rush to participate in this historic event, none of you left the fire roaring or the rabbits loose in the garden. You know what those little greedy pests can do. By the time you go back home, they could have grazed down the whole country! If all goes well, at the end of this day, we will have only burnt some straw dummies and levelled down this one field." It drew hearty laughter from some parts of the audience and some uncertain giggles and awkward silence from others (particularly those where the spectators were not entirely sure whether the satyr was speaking of rabbits or Rabbits). Methos caught himself smirking and chuckling to himself, thinking that the satyr host would not be too out of place on some TV shows – it was all spot on, including the awkward, possibly politically incorrect bits. He wondered whether the straw dummies he spoke of were only those intended as targets, and if not, what exactly he was referring to.

Dirpas, a young lord from somewhere in northern Narnia who would have made an exquisite example of the Norse type if anyone cared about such things here, then spoke on behalf of the competitors, addressing the Queen very courteously. Methos secretly scoffed at his speech (and even though he did not know it, so did Thunderbolt): by virtue of being elegant in courtly expression, the speech was somewhat lacking in elegance of logic. Lucy, too, seemed to be more bemused by it than anything else, but she accepted it with grace.

Then all the competitors were sworn to fair play by Lord Tol, again with a lot of flourish in the words of the oath; it seemed an indispensable part of this sort of public undertaking, even back at the re-enactments, Methos recalled. The satyr rattled, trumpets were sounded, Queen Lucy waved her handkerchief in the air and the competition was formally started.

Small crossbows were the first to compete. Six people stepped into their places in the shooting gallery and started preparing their weapons. Methos began remembering why there was a given number of darts every shooter had to use but no specifics as to when. They pulled their strings by very varied means, at various pace, and if every time the faster ones (those with lighter crossbows, easier to pull) waited for the slower ones, it would be a boring show indeed.

It proved a fairly boring show anyway, after some time. In the first batch of competitors, the results were very unpredictable, and the jester kept commenting on it (unashamedly scolding most of the shooters for their lack of skill). The audience could not guess till the very last dart who would be best, and the counting of true hits was eagerly and closely watched. Methos felt very self-conscious with so many eyes on him as he counted his share of the targets. But as it went on, Methos grew bored. Some shooters were very clearly better than others, some were very clearly much faster than others, he was hot and thirsty and hungry and grew weary of the monotony of it. Without the jester's commentary it would have probably been unbearable.

Somewhere around the last group of small crossbow shooters, however, he realised he was probably the only one in the crowd feeling so. The audience was captivated. They still kept supporting their favourites, shouting their names, waiting with bated breath for every dart to hit, giving applause to every one that did. Even Arnelf and Thunderbolt kept watching it closely.

He was spoilt by fast modern day entertainment, he realised, and once he did and allowed himself to ease into the much slower pace (getting cool water with apple juice to drink helped), he began to enjoy it as well. The jester in particular definitely had his moments, working the audience like a professional (well, maybe he was), often nearly crossing the boundary of appropriateness, but never going too far, never being tasteless. He rattled the jokes away so quickly that Methos promptly forgot them again; but it did not matter, because this was a matter of the moment, of here and now; and in the next here and now, another joke came, and another.

It also helped that next up were the smallest bows, much faster and much more precise. And there she was, that little Kinglet, and my, was she good!

"Cousin Twinkletop scores another bullseye!" the satyr yelled excitedly, and then added swiftly, switching back into a calm and wry tone, "I do believe from now on, I will only announce when she does not. It most certainly would be easier on my voice. Feel free to clap to your hearts' content, though!"

Methos was supposed to be the impartial judge, but he did not care. He did clap to his heart's content, like everyone else. Twinkletop had several disadvantages on her side, from size and shape of limbs to having eyes on the sides of her head and being unable to look straight forward; but it did not matter for her, she only needed to look with one eye anyway, and she was the sort of miracle sportswoman who overcomes all odds and is all the better for it. He loved her. Everyone loved her. Queen Lucy had forgotten that she was supposed to be all regal, and sat on top of the railing of the gallery to have a better view. Edmund, eventually, sat next to her. Susan was at first frowning at them, but then forgot all about it for the competition and applauded Twinkletop more than anyone else.

There was no one nowhere near as good afterwards, although one of the Mice with longbows had a very sure hand, too. Inevitably, everyone's attention ebbed, and when lunch time was announced, everyone cheered with much the same enthusiasm as what they had applauded Twinkletop with before.

Methos ended up lunching with the royals, because Thunderbolt of course did, and took Peridan and Arnelf with him. The food was prepared on a trestle table with a shining white tablecloth, underneath a bright yellow tent, the poles as well as the table and chairs garlanded with flowers. There were more tables spread for others in the open, although the food could hardly suffice for everyone; most people had brought their own. Some fires were started, despite the heat. In the royal tent, though, it was quite pleasant: in the shade and with soft breeze blowing from the east. There were also musicians whom Tol had apparently invited to provide pleasurable accompaniment to the meal; the lord's plans were foiled by the Queen herself, who insisted that the musicians eat first and play later.

The food was good, chicken and vegetable noodle soup, and poultry, and light salads and fruit, perfectly suitable for the time of year. Methos had learned not to expect any less from Mrs Beaver and her staff. There was wine, too – the young ones, which meant all the tetrarchs, drank it diluted with water. Methos eventually included himself in the group, because he felt thirsty rather than wanting wine – even though it was good, from the second harvest after the Winter which, Lord Tol said, was a good vintage. They took his word for it, because most of them did not really know. Methos knew, and agreed wholeheartedly, but kept that opinion to himself, because what did a young, nineteen-year-old orphan know of wines?

What the five-thousand-year-old man thought was that Narnia could be very favourable to dry whites.

And yes, there were also gooseberry fools. Lucy insisted on Peridan having a taste ("a taste" equalled a whole cupful thrust in his hand), and both her and Mrs Beaver, for some reason, watched him with tense anticipation of his verdict. Methos dutifully pronounced the dessert perfect. (Which it was.)

"I shall excuse myself now," Thunderbolt said then, bowing to the tetrarchs. "That patch of grass over there looks too enticing."

He trotted off to satisfy his horse side and left the other two scribes hanging there, unsure of their status in the royal tent now.

* * *

The afternoon went on in much the same manner it had gone before, the archers stepping up and proving their mettle; Twinkletop remained the unconquered champion. Edmund and Peter still kept on a lookout for good archers, taking note of those they had not been aware of before. Lucy and Susan kept enthusiastically clapping and exchanging comments with each other and some of the ladies as well (some of the male archers naturally attracted much attention from the older young ladies).

"Is there anyone, beside Mistress Twinkletop, whom you would like to reward today?" Edmund asked his younger sister quietly as that day's competition was drawing to a close. There were more archers scheduled for the day after, and the winners of this day would also be competing in more disciplines.

The reward was slated to be dinner with the royals and a commemorative sash for each of the competitors Lucy would choose.

"I'll have to think about it," Lucy replied, "but I really think the scribes and the jester should come dine with us again as well – they have spent the whole day in the sun. The archers, at least, stand under a roof when they are shooting, and can go hide afterwards."

"That is a good idea," Susan nodded appreciatively.

So they invited them. Lucy then chose to reward Twinkletop, that one Mouse who was good with a longbow (one of Garvan's people, as most Mice were), and a Bear named Bulgy from down south with a crossbow. The Bear seemed particularly pleased with the honour and proved a very courteous creature, entertaining them with stories about his ancestors later during the dinner.

As dusk slowly closed around them, stars began appearing in the skies and people were leaving for the camp that they had set up for the occasion, the three competitors, too, left. Edmund could feel a sort of happy sadness overcome him: sadness that it had ended, but happy because it had been an overall success, and had made Lucy incredibly happy.

It was a pity that he had one last, less leisurely thing to do, instead of just going to sleep with a song like many others did.

"Could you go with me?" he turned to Peridan. "I have left some documents that Lord Dirpas brought in my study. I think it would be better if you took them and put them with the others, yourself – you know Thunderbolt's system better."

"I could –" Thunderbolt began.

"Oh no, Thunderbolt," Edmund smiled, "there is no need for you to climb the stairs and bow your head under the ceilings."

"Ah," Thunderbolt said, resignedly, "there is truth in that. I am sorry, Peridan."

Peridan only shrugged.

"I will at least take these papers," Thunderbolt added, indicating the lists of archers and the charts with the results of that day's competitions. "We shall meet at breakfast tomorrow."

* * *

They left earlier than the rest of the group, walking across the lawn in silence; the ocean a constant hum to their right. Then Edmund yawned, quickly covering his mouth with the palm of his hand.

"It has been a long day," he remarked. "And it went past so quickly. Why is it that it always goes so quickly when you are enjoying yourself?"

"It just does," Methos shrugged.

"At least it will continue tomorrow," Edmund said. "And then Sunday. These past days, I was beginning to wonder if we would ever get to Sunday again."

Methos did not reply, not having much to add.

They entered the courtyard and then the east wing, climbing up the stairs. Edmund was not one of those people who hated silence and needed to chat it away. Methos was fine with that. They both picked and lighted a candle from the table at the top of the stairs; the ground floor and the stairs were lit for the convenience of anyone entering, but on the higher floors, it was up to your own discretion.

Edmund's study was just next to Peter's, only his door was much less elaborate. In fact, it was a very unassuming room for a king, furnished with shelves that looked kind of Ikea-like in their simplicity (Methos had to dig in his mind for that parable, only dimly aware of a certain sort of familiarity at first). It was also full of papers, much like Thunderbolt's larger study.

The documents from Lord Dirpas were, of course, school-related.

"What exactly are these?" Methos asked, flipping through them: it was all written in the same sort of elaborate courtly language the lord had used at the competition. He was unable to discern the purpose at this first glance in the dim light of the candles and, after the busy and hot day, did not quite feel like delving deeper.

"Stories, I believe," Edmund said. "From people in Dirpas' lands. He said something along the lines of 'you wanted to know about school in the Witch's time, and so did I'."

Methos rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"You do not have to read them now," Edmund assured him quickly.

"I – apologise for my lack of... enthusiasm," Methos said. "But as you said, Your Majesty, it has been a long day, and before that, other long days..."

"You really should have got a day off," Edmund replied, leaving the room. Methos followed and Edmund locked the door.

"I do not think I worked any harder than any of you, Your Majesty," Methos objected.

"But _we_ got a day off," Edmund said, striding down the corridor to where apparently his bedroom was. Methos, not having been dismissed, walked along. He was not sure whether Edmund was even aware that he should dismiss him, but he could not think of a reverent way to point it out. Maybe he really was too tired.

"I really would like to believe these reports from elsewhere in the country will help me see what is needed," Edmund said with a sigh as he stopped at a door, and suddenly he spoke almost too much. "But I am not sure anymore where the _truth_ lies. No matter how deep I look, there are always two sides to it – it is necessary, and good, to learn and to meet other people along the way, like Dobbin said; and it is necessary to preserve the Narnian tradition and the various people's ways of life, because otherwise we are no better than the Witch. And every person I speak to seems to be in the right, and every story is important."

"Your Majesty," Methos ventured, "You may be getting too involved. You may be losing perspective."

Edmund turned to him of a sudden, his hand on the door handle. Methos began to wonder if perhaps he had not gone too far; but the King's silence dragged. Had he been simply stunned by Peridan's cheek, he would have said so already.

"No," Edmund said in the end, slowly and deliberately. "No, I do not think so. I think that sort of perspective is not all it's cracked up to be; it is not what I should be after. You see, Peridan, you only gain perspective by distancing yourself. I do not think that is... what Aslan did when he saved me, and all of us. I do not think that is what he would have wanted of me. – Good night."

He disappeared in his bedchamber and left Methos standing in the corridor, gaping after him, candle and documents in his hands and all.

* * *

Nice one, pulling _that_ authority on me, had still been Methos's first sarcastic mental response; but there was much less edge to it than there could have been or would have been earlier that year. Edmund was right; it was not the way to run a country fairly, either. That way, in leaders not willing to listen, glossing over it or touching only the surface, lay the source behind many political grievances. It was Methos who was stunned into silence and quandary once again. And it was not like having the Highlander talk him into a position he had not wanted to take. It was far worse: he had been proven wrong, judged and proven light, by a boy barely thirteen years of age, and to top it off, Edmund was not even aware. Over five thousand years of experience and accumulated habits that had always seemed perfectly reasonable, snuffed in a minute. Forget not getting involved, Edmund had told him, eternal wisdom (and who else should have more perspective?) did not go that way.

His room felt oddly empty and large as he tried to will himself to sleep, his body detached from his mind and miles away. He remained long awake that night, thoughts tossing around in his head, questions long thought answered resurfacing with a vengeance. Aslan was real; people he knew and knew to be truthful had met him. Aslan's side was a real thing, and considering the people he had met here, the side he would want to stick to because it was the side of life. Maybe all those people diving into the mire, raging against impossible odds, all those whom he had always thought were wasting their efforts and time and risking their sanity at the least, did have a point. Edmund did have a point. The only way to remain above it all was to never even touch it; which was in effect only contributing to it.

Byron had once suggested that Methos did not have a life... Byron had ultimately been wrong in his own approach to life. (And what a pity he had gone on to live like that, considering how many remembered him as a hero; Immortality _was_ a curse more often than not.) But he may have been right about Methos after all. Methos' instinct was for inaction and letting things go their own way; millennia of experience had taught him it was usually the most feasible and, possibly, harmless approach. But was it _better_? Was it _good_?

And what _was_ "good", anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the (Czech) sites I ran into says that Goldcrest "descends on the ground only when forced to". And that they're amazingly resilient for such small creatures. So I'm glad I chose one for my stalwart bird archer.
> 
> The competition as such is actually largely based on a late-medieval style competition I observed last autumn. Especially the vows and the jester figure. I also got a taste of how boring it could eventually get (for a modern viewer) without someone witty commenting it (that particular jester lost most of his wit over time; I figured my satyr would be better at it).
> 
> I do not know all that much about wines. I went with what I know of wine here in the Czech Republic (one of the northernmost wine-growing countries), and checked online to see if my intuition was correct. Thankfully, it was. I'm thinking something like Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc or possibly Neuburger. That sounds so wonderfully wine-snobbish, doesn't it? Long live South Moravia.


	16. In which our hero plays his part

**Chapter 16**

**In which our hero plays his part**

"Oh, Peridan, you don't look good! Are you ill?" Queen Lucy said at breakfast the next morning, with her trademark honesty.

"I did not sleep very well," Methos admitted. When Arminius had woken him that morning, it had taken the faun several tries before he had gotten anything beside a very grumpy and sleepy "hmmmmph" out of him, let alone made him get up. "I was thinking too much last night – probably well into today."

"Thinking?" Thunderbolt asked. "May I inquire as to what about?"

"Something King Edmund told me in the evening," Methos sank down on a chair with a sigh. He was not sure he wanted to discuss this; but at the same time, he was beginning to understand he could not sort through it without someone else's point of view, to define his own opinions against it if nothing else.

"Surely you have not spent all night thinking about perspective?" Edmund gave him a sharp appraisal that was disturbingly similar to one of Thunderbolt's. The boy was way too clever for his age... Then, Edmund's gaze completely mellowed in a way that Thunderbolt's rarely did. "Will you help me?" he asked softly. For a while that seemed to him like eternity, Methos just stared at him. He was not sure he had understood.

And then he did. It was an outstretched hand: an invitation, an offer of support, an offer of companionship. Edmund, probably more than anyone else in Narnia, understood what he was going through, even if his twelve years of experience had nothing on Methos'. He knew it firsthand, and he was telling him that he was not alone.

It was still mind-boggling, but it was some kind of answer. _This_ was _good._

"Yes, I will, Your Majesty," Methos bowed.

"You can do something none of us can, Peridan," Edmund explained, more for the others' sake than Peridan's at this point. "You are neither a king nor a lord; people may speak more openly with you. Ask more questions; let people talk. Listen. See what they _really_ need."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Peridan bowed again.

They then agreed, on Thunderbolt's suggestion and with Thunderbolt's blessing, to give Peridan the day off from his scribing duties – especially since he had now agreed to do another work for them. Methos used the free time suddenly bestowed upon him to look up Arminius again and ask him if he had time for a lesson. The faun did, because the competition that day only started at half past ten and his work schedule was a bit looser. They spent a very agreeable if rather exhausting half-hour in the fencing courtyard. Methos felt sharply the decline in his skills caused by the lack of sleep, but Arminius did not seem to notice.

I'm still manipulating him around, Methos thought as he finished the lesson, trying to come up with the best way to ask Arminius for what he wanted to know. But there was no way around the fact of the manipulation. This was simply how he worked.

Arminius himself made it a bit easier to start a conversation, though.

* * *

It was a quick lesson. It was also unplanned, but that was the rule rather than an exception. The lesson ended as usual, with Arminius receiving a quick and efficient drubbing. It could easily become discouraging, Arminius thought, but Peridan always went through the moves with him, explaining what he had done wrong and how he could do better, and showed a remarkable amount of patience for someone who had to steal the time for their lessons from a busy and unpredictable schedule. He had long come to admire the man's skill and understand that even by knightly standards, his sword work was very good. He was beginning to admire Peridan's teaching skills as well; for a Man, he understood his faunish approach to movement really well. And now that he had learned a bit more, he could see that Peridan, as unbelievable as it seemed, had actually been going easy on him from the beginning, always slowly raising the bar; it made him wonder how much more the man knew. He seemed to have an endless supply of moves at his command, never doing the same thing twice in a row. He _would_ do the same thing eventually, testing him; but he would never let him grow complacent. It was a little bit like dancing in a room with other people whose movements you could not predict.

"How did you become so good?" Arminius asked Peridan when they ended the lesson. He did not quite understand how Peridan could be so much better than some older men – knights, too – at the court. Peridan was not even a knight yet. And were you not supposed to only get better with age?

"Practice," Peridan answered. "It's always good to keep practising; preferably with someone better than you. Or at least someone just as good, but in a different way."

He looked strangely wistful; normally, he was very focused and rigorous during their lessons. It was odd for him to deliver a piece of advice and not even look at Arminius. Normally, he would watch him closely, and point out the merest loss of concentration and have him repeat the advice.

"In a different way?"

"It's good to have friends who keep proving you wrong," Peridan said. He sat down next to him, in a sudden companionable manner that he had not demonstrated in their lessons before. "Do you still go to school?"

"In the afternoons and evenings," Arminius nodded. "With other people working in the castle; we take turns depending on the time we work. Although now of course we have holidays."

"I was wondering... Do you have discussions at school? You know, discuss the books you've read, that sort of thing?"

"Like you do with Master Thunderbolt?"

Peridan laughed.

"Yes, something like that."

"We do not read as quickly as you do."

"Is that the castle gossip now? Following my reading?"

Now Arminius could not help but laugh. It was true: the Dog who was keeping track of the library books had been very eager to share stories in the recent weeks; she was so excited to finally have a reader who came to the library of his own will, all the time. Peridan, admittedly, did serve as a bit of an example to others in Asta's stories: several of Arminius' classmates decided to borrow books a bit more often, if someone like Peridan, whose fame among the servants was probably far greater than he was aware of himself, read so much.

"Asta says you are the most avid reader in the whole castle. She likes you."

"Librarians all the world around..." Peridan murmured; but he murmured it fondly.

"She says the whole library now smells like you," Arminius added.

"Weeell..." Peridan drawled, in a tone suggesting he did not particularly wish to delve deeper into that subject; an impression further proved by his next words, much quicker than the previous: "So what do you make of your school discussions? I always find it really useful to see all sides of an argument, you see, and the discussions with Master Thunderbolt are _very_ good for that. He always catches me if there's a flaw in my logic."

"Oh, I see!" Arminius clapped his hands excitedly. "Yes, it is good to hear somebody else's opinion. So it is good to fence with someone with a different style, right? That is what you meant, right?"

"Right," Peridan said. "Though I really was wondering about your school. Seeing as I am not there, and as much as Thunderbolt tries to teach me everything about Narnia, I am missing out on something. What is it like, to go to school with all those other people?"

"I do not think it is all that different from your own lessons."

"It's definitely different; I am alone."

"Well, I mean, it was much more different before," Arminius explained carefully what he meant. "We have centaurs teaching us, too, and it is really much better than when the hags were teaching me. Centaurs love the discussions; with hags, it was all cramming. We did not understand half of it, but we had to remember it, or they'd punish us. It was rather like the whole situation. I mean, we did not understand the laws, but we had to keep them anyway."

"Uh-oh. And that's better now?"

" _Much_ better! You would have no idea, of course, but you really need to know this. The Kings and Queens _always_ make sure the laws make sense. Even I can understand them – even my younger brother, most of the time. I suppose it's because there are so many different people deciding on the laws now."

"No, it's because there are so many different _good_ people deciding on the laws now," Peridan said thoughtfully.

* * *

Free of his scribing duties at the competition, Methos purposefully committed a minor faux pas and forced his way to the gallery reserved for aristocracy. He wanted to talk to Garvan, and thankfully, Garvan welcomed him cheerfully and did not question his right to be there. Even though a few of the other human lords and ladies eyed him rather suspiciously. Once more, he noticed that the Beasts were far less sticklers for formality than most of the humans; he wondered whether that was a Narnian versus foreign thing in essence. He had not bothered removing the attendant's ribbons from his tunic, though, which left him with much more freedom of movement in the crowd than he would have otherwise. He was, after all, still working on a mission for the tetrarchs.

With Garvan, there was no need to beat around the bush too much; they had already briefly mentioned the issue.

"I still think it is a pity you did not compete yesterday," Garvan said when Methos sat down next to him. "My own skill was nothing compared to others, after all. But Mistress Twinkletop would outshine even Her Grace Queen Susan."

So Susan was known for archery skills? Interesting; he had not seen her with a bow yet, but then, he usually only interacted with her when she needed something done, not in her free time.

"Oh, Mistress Twinkletop is good," he said aloud, and did not need to force himself to say it.

"She is outstanding," Garvan agreed. "I understand you have no duties today? We could do some shooting after the competition ends."

"We could," Methos conceded, not really looking forward to it.

For a while, they watched the competitors in silence; then, Methos said:

"With all the school-related debates going on, Lord Garvan, I was wondering what your own experience with school was like."

"I was taught by my parents and private tutors. I suppose that is your own experience?"

"My education was anything but systematic," Methos said.

"Oh," Garvan said. "I am sorry."

"No, I think ultimately, it was... useful," Methos shrugged. "I have experienced different types of education, so I suppose that is good? But I have no idea what it could be like in the schools here, with all the different people attending. How do they get along?"

"I find myself lacking in that respect as well," Garvan nodded. "So I break with family tradition and send my own children to school with everyone else."

"You do?" Methos asked, surprised. Garvan nodded.

"My family thinks I am mad," he laughed softly. "My family back in Archenland," he clarified. "We have the privilege of not having to do that, the few of us lords with our own children; but I see no reason why I should not. They say the children should learn how to run the estate; but I do not think my own education equipped me any better for it. And I do not want my children to repeat my early mistakes in that respect. Here in Narnia, I believe it is much more beneficial if all the different children grow up together."

"It could be beneficial," Methos nodded. "I keep being surprised by the various people I meet; if they grow up together, they could get used to the differences, and... get over them."

"Precisely," Garvan nodded.

"Does it work?"

"It seems to," Garvan said. "Especially with the younger ones. Gar, admittedly, is probably too old to be affected in a substantial way – like you, I suppose, he is not much younger; but he is thankfully a good boy anyway."

Methos could not help it, could not stop it; he burst out laughing. The age comparison was inadvertently ridiculous, and more so for being truthful anyway.

"Well, it must seem funny to you when you are not a father," Garvan smiled, unperturbed.

"I am sorry," Methos said, trying to stop his laughter and mostly failing. It was a release for the tension he had been feeling recently, and he just had to let it go its course.

"Young people," Garvan said, shaking his head in a fondly dismissive grown-up way, and Methos' laughter erupted anew.

* * *

He tried talking to the frog-like people (marshwiggles, Garvan told him; he seemed somewhat bemused at why he wanted to talk to them). The conversation left him, for a short while, with the impression that the world would end soon because such catastrophes always began with infighting, and that (which was scarier, because there was truth in it) everything always seemed rosy after a change but these sunny spells did not last.

He was very glad to have run into the satyr jester at that moment.

* * *

Saturday was not as hot as the day before had been. That, paired with the fact that now the visitors from Stormness Vast were already more familiar with the place and some of the people, made for an overall more pleasant experience. At lunch time, while some of the competitions were still running, Brierbell and Bricklethumb secured a nice level spot on the lawn where they spread blankets for the family to sit and picnic on, while Dibble with the other two boys brought apple juice and water. They were surrounded by other families, who were talking and laughing and sometimes singing, all enjoying their meals. They exchanged some food with their neighbours, so now they had a number of foodstuffs to choose from, which also added to the nice, festive feeling.

"Will you mind if I join you?"

The young scribe – Peridan – was standing above them, a wooden plate full of food in his hands.

"Of course not. But should you not be recording the results?" Dibble wondered.

"I got the day off," Peridan said, and plopped down on the ground next to their blanket rather unceremoniously, nearly tripping his overflowing plate in the process. "I am basking in the sun of complete and utter freedom to talk to whomever I wish now."

"And out of all the people present, you choose us?" Brierbell laughed. It seemed ridiculous; he could be talking to any of those lovely human ladies, after all...

"I would like to learn more about you. You come from a far corner of Narnia I've ever met anyone from yet. Well, excepting Thunderbolt, but he does not talk about Stormness Vast much."

"He does not?" Dibble asked.

"While conversations with Master Thunderbolt are very eclectic, they tend to be highly academic," Peridan said in a somewhat exaggerated, more courtly manner. Then his voice slipped back into his slightly provincial, probably western accent, and he added: "We tend to speak of very abstract concepts. It's all very exciting, but right now, I feel I need to be more earthbound."

"We will be glad to keep you company and learn more about you, too. Mistress Twinkletop thinks highly of you," Brierbell offered.

"I think highly of her, but everyone does these days," Peridan replied. "Wait, she thinks highly of me? We've barely met."

"She said she liked you because you were not dismissive to her."

"Oh," Peridan said. "Well, there's that, I suppose..."

He seemed strangely bemused.

"She said it was a rare trait in humans," Dibble nodded.

"Humans are, on the large, a conceited bunch," Peridan replied flippantly. "Although, in my recent experience, some dwarfs can be like that, too. No offence. I may be horribly mistaken; I had not exactly met any dwarfs until some two months ago."

"I am sorry for your bad experience," Brierbell said. "Whatever happened, I am sure we are not all like that."

"No," he said. "There's never no one all like that. Master Thunderbolt would give me a clip to my ear for that convoluted sentence," he added smoothly, in a somewhat disturbing transition. He seemed very well aware of it, too: "Look at me, being all school-child-like. He sort of teaches me, you see."

"Does he clip your ears?" Bricklethumb asked, in wide-eyed horror.

Peridan, to the children's delighted amusement, wiggled his ears with his hands.

"Do they look clipped to you?"

"No!" Bricklethumb giggled. "But I could not believe Master Thunderbolt would do what the old teachers did!"

"I sincerely hope nobody does now," Peridan said, firmly.

"No," Bricklethumb replied, with visible relief.

"Good," Peridan said. "Because that would be terribly unfair, to be better off with my teacher than you, just because I somehow ended up living at Cair Paravel."

He's good with children, Brierbell thought. He should be out there, getting a family of his own; these years are a good time for that.

"Do you have a favourite subject?" he asked then.

"Do you?" Rogin retorted.

"Eh, not so much. I enjoy most of it, you see – ask the librarian, I'm there all the time," he chuckled.

"Do you have a _not_ favourite subject?" Rogin pried.

"I'm not very good with astronomy, I suppose," Peridan replied. "You?"

"Astrology, bleugh," Rogin retorted, and Peridan laughed. "Master Starspell _loves_ astrology. He's the prophet, you see – he knows all about stars. _All_ of it. He could tell all about you just from the time you were born. It's scary."

"Ah!" Peridan said. "Good luck with that; I have no idea when I was born. I like it that way, too. I prefer to make my own way in the world."

By now, all three of them were hanging on his every word. Come to think of it, so were she and Dibble. She was beginning to understand what it was Twinkletop had seen in the Man (and wondered, once more, how she could have seen it so quickly).

"Besides, I do not think that's what being a prophet means," Peridan continued. "I think that's – well, astrology, I suppose." Once more, he seemed somewhat bemused.

"He can, sometimes, tell the future without stars," Brierbell said. "Tell someone's nature."

"Well, that sure is scary," Peridan said. "And he teaches you?" turning to the children.

"He's one of the people who teach us. He's the scariest," Duffle said. "But it is nothing compared to what it used to be like."

"It's scary because he says I am reckless and will not learn," Rogin frowned. "Like he's saying it's no use teaching me."

"Well, you are," Duffle retorted.

"Am not!"

Oh dear, oh dear, oh Aslan, Brierbell thought, not this again, not in front of Peridan – what will he think?

"You sure are," Dibble intervened. "You do so many things instead of studying what you are supposed to. For one thing, you think of clothes all too much!"

"Well, he says it's no use anyway!" Rogin said stubbornly. "And I like sewing! Nobody tells _mom_ off for sewing! Why can't _she_ teach me instead?"

"Oh, crap..." Peridan murmured in a decidedly _not_ courtly manner.


	17. In which our hero takes someone's part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this thing isn't dead!
> 
> Actually, I've been working on this chapter for quite a while now, on and off (while in some of the off moments, I worked on things further in the story, which I guess is good for further in the story but isn't very good for regular updates). A good part of it was already written when I posted the last one, but then I got busy in Real Life. And the chapter kept feeling wrong. It kept lingering, not saying enough. So I tinkered and felt the need to rework more, but for a long time did not know how.
> 
> Now, finally, it feels right. It's longer than usual. It feels better that way.

 

  
**Chapter 17**

**In which our hero takes someone's part**

 

"Please, do not use such language in front of the children," Brierbell told him quietly.

"Oh, sorry," Methos said, mentally berating himself. _Again_. It had just slipped out. It had been so frustrating to observe the argument, observe familiar issues unfold again, and back in Seacouver, it would have been a natural reaction. Narnia was a different matter, however, and of course, children were always a different matter.

But it simply _was_ frustrating. Another world, so completely different people, yet nothing was really any different.

Duffle somehow managed to calm Rogin down and as they had finished their meal, they all went to watch the next competition together. The target shooting had now been concluded and now it was the best archers' turn to prove their mettle in another discipline. It was fast bow shooting: a target was thrown into the air and the competitors' task was to hit it with as many arrows as possible before it fell on the ground. Twinkletop was, once again, the very best. Several people were faster than her; but her aim was more precise than anyone else's, which served her well in her overall score.

"I would watch and learn her technique, if only she were not a bird," Dibble remarked.

"I think everyone is thinking the same now," Methos smirked, amused. "Maybe some of the other birds will now pick up archery, too."

"Maybe she could teach them," someone said behind them. It was Queen Susan. The dwarfs all snapped back and gasped in surprise when they saw her; Methos was more dignified in his recognition, because he already knew her voice. They all bowed and Susan gestured at them not to do it.

"As you were," she smiled, "I just needed to stretch my legs." And then she turned to Methos and said: "How did your conversation with the Marshwiggles go, Peridan?"

"I am led to understand that it went as was to be expected," Methos shrugged. "Are they always so pessimistic?"

"I am led to understand that they are," Susan replied. "But I have never really talked to them myself – only in an official audience – so I was curious about your experience."

Methos spotted the muddy-reedy group across the lawn.

"Maybe now you have a chance to gain experience for yourself, Madam," he said, nodding in their direction.

The young queen laughed.

"We both still need to learn much, don't we? I will venture into the deadly waters, then." She smiled at him and headed purposefully in the direction of the Marshwiggles, leaving him to his thoughts.

Of course, he was much, much older than her, but Narnia did keep leaving him feeling much, much younger than he really was in certain matters. It wasn't just the fact that he was in a new world. It was as if sometimes he really was that nineteen-year-old man he pretended to be. As if, sometimes, he could not even remember how old he really was.

And sometimes it was even nice. There were things he generally preferred not to think about, and usually did not think about until they suddenly resurfaced. It had always been that way: there were things he had done and had happily left behind, and memories he happily forgot to think about in the quiet enjoyment of a book or in the presence of his friends who made him focus his mind on better topics. With everything he had on his plate in a new world, not even needing to worry about things he possibly ought to worry about made his life easier. Just being a young Telmarine knight who knew nothing about the country he found himself in, instead of being a millennia old Immortal who knew nothing about the world he found himself in. Until, of course, something like someone's off-hand remark or his stupid language slip-ups made it clear to him that those things, those parts of his being and history were still present somewhere in the countless folds of his mind and memory, suddenly shaken out.

This would not do. He could not spend the day wondering about himself. He had another task to do.

* * *

He finally got a chance to talk to more satyrs when the competition ended and he was seized by Garvan and led to the shooting range. He would have probably chosen to speak to the group of satyr children that was trying out their own archery skills in other circumstances; some circumstances where he would not be embarrassed by own his painfully obvious lack of skill. But in a way, that helped them to bond. So far, they had mostly observed good or even excellent archers these past days, so his inability to hit the target had to be refreshing. He learned things, just like he had with the dwarfs. It was all hidden underneath joyful conversation, but he asked the same sort of questions and got the same sort of answers: traditions broken up, teachers not quite understanding, the outcast status thus created and the occasional bullying that followed. It was disturbing, but he was no longer surprised.

The one surprised party was Garvan – not about the schools, although there was also a measure of surprise there, but about Peridan's lack of skill. Especially after Methos took up a crossbow and suddenly scored much, much better.

"I know crossbows are easier to use, but you are an extraordinary case, Peridan," the lord said. "How come you are – if you pardon me saying so – so bad with a bow? They are both, after all, arts of aim."

Methos shrugged. He had expected this. He had had a hard time trying to explain it to Joe as well, the discrepancy between his prowess in gun use and the fact that he had never really used bows in a similar manner. It had been even more difficult to explain why he could throw darts (and knives) with fairly good accuracy as well, but had never really used bows.

"I do not know. There is something in the build of a bow that does not sit well with me. I always throw my aim, no matter what I do."

Garvan shook his head, laughing.

"Extraordinary. I cannot see you doing anything particularly wrong, either... except that yes, every time, you somehow... throw your aim at the last moment."

An older satyr, who had arrived to herd the children away, said:

"Practice, of course. You need more practice."

Methos swallowed the remark that he'd had millennia of practice already. It was actually not quite truthful anyway. He had given up after a few centuries of wasted arrows. Relied on traps and other people for his food. And gladly slipped into civilised city life after he had parted ways with the Horsemen, never to look back – especially after crossbows and then much later also reliable guns were developed. (He may have somewhat helped the spreading of the former, too.)

"I think we should leave it at that today; it is growing dark already," he said instead.

"That is why I came – the fire has been started!" the satyr said. "Come." And he led them to the sea.

Indeed, a large bonfire had been built on the beach and fire started and almost everyone gathered closer around it. As they approached, a group of fauns began playing their flutes. It was a beautiful yet chilling melody with an ancient feel to it, yet not quite like anything Methos could recall. He liked it; he liked the mixture of familiarity and excitingly new – Narnianness. Then, other musicians with other instruments like fiddle, cymbal, contrabass, and drums joined in, adding depth as well as more pronounced rhythm to the music. The satyr jester was drumming his tambourine again, but this time properly, in line with the other musicians. Some people started dancing. There was no particular order to the dance and yet it all fit together, the dancers' moves somehow complimenting each other and the music, which was growing faster and merrier (but always retaining that original underbelly). Queen Lucy was dancing unabashedly among the fauns, barefooted, hair let loose, laughing. After a while, her siblings joined in.

Methos did not start dancing, but the music would not leave him at rest; he had to at least clap and sway in rhythm with others. He had seen people dancing in Narnia a few times before, like that last time Garvan was here; but never like this. Those dances had been more like English country dances. He _had_ seen people dancing like _this_ before – he thought –, around a fire, at rock concerts, and yet, just like with the music, it was not the same. Because here it was not just humans, but fauns, satyrs, dryads, naiads, dwarfs and centaurs (that was quite a sight), and many Beasts as well. Even a few birds – he could see a White Stork waggling in the rhythm, flapping its large wings so that anyone who would come too near would do so at the risk of injury to their limbs. But nobody did and nobody bumped into anyone else, all those curiously different creatures becoming one people in this dance. It was awesome. It was something only music could do, he thought.

This was the kind of music that was passed down through generations, each adding its flavour to it, yet each retaining its heart. And that heart would disappear with schooled analysis of the mind, he knew. He, too, had to let go.

When the music stopped, he was only one of many who wished it had not.

"Time for the axe dance, I believe!" the satyr announced, and Methos suddenly began to understand why the satyrs and dwarfs were so adamant about maintaining their traditions.

"Oh, you could not have told us earlier, could you?" Smithkin cried into the enthusiastic approval of the crowd. "If half of us have our axes with us today, you're lucky!"

"You could go and fetch some more from the castle," Tazzik suggested drily from the edge of the crowd. He was apparently one of the few dwarfs who did have an axe on him, probably because he was not allowed to participate in archery. Whatever an axe dance was, he for one was ready.

"Hey, let's just do it with our bows, boys!" another dwarf's voice replied excitedly. "There's no better time to do it then now, and we have not all done a proper axe dance together since the first Spring!"

"A bow dance?" Dibble laughed from somewhere in the crowd. "Why not?"

"Just make sure you don't break your bows, boys!" another, old, white-bearded dwarf pointed out. His advice was rewarded with a buzz of offended "tsks".

"As if!" yet another dwarf snorted.

And so they began. It was more a show of acrobatic skill than dance, actually: jumps and flips, moving around while squatting down, and fast whirls, and also a bit of a song contest; all made even more difficult with the inclusion of the weapons in the movements. One-upmanship. It definitely required a lot of strength and skill, something dwarfs were well-known for; but Methos had had no idea that dwarfs could also be so nimble and fast on their feet and so flexible in their movements. It started out somewhat randomly, but the longer it went on, the more daring the individual displays of skill became, and the more synchronised the other dancers grew.

Now that Methos could see them all in one place, he realised there was a very specific style to the dwarfs' special occasion clothes: they all wore coloured hoods, fitted but flared embroidered tunics, trousers with ornaments at the top – the embellishments flashed as their tunics moved –, and leather boots. It reminded Methos somewhat of some Eastern European folk clothes, and that thought in its turn made him wonder if the slight variations were regional or just personal. Were there regional dress styles in Narnia? If there were, the dwarfs were possibly the only community in Narnia, for the time being, where those differences manifested, what with most native Narnians having no use for clothes and the humans having come from all over the place after the Winter.

It could be very interesting to observe the further development of Narnian traditions. And as much as he enjoyed the mingling, it would be a great pity if the traditions were lost in it.

* * *

Brierbell met Peridan again in the evening; he ran into her when she was packing some of their things for the journey home the following day, while the men were at the fire. At first she thought that he, too, had gone into the tent village to pick something, but soon she realised he had purposefully searched for her. He asked her about Rogin.

"It is a sore thing for my husband," she told him. "That he should pick my craft over his, and neglect his studies for it. I really hoped it would not be brought up again. It would have been easier had we had daughters as well."

"It is wrong to suppress such things," Peridan replied, gently. "Maybe one of your daughters would have picked his craft over yours, too; or someone else's entirely. I do believe it was a good thing that it surfaced. You see... I was not entirely honest with you. I had a reason for asking. King Edmund tasked me with finding out what people really think about the schools as they are now."

"Oh," she said.

He had been very subtle about it. She never would have thought he had actually been interrogating them. Oh, but that was precisely it, wasn't it? It was not meant to be an interrogation.

"They are really, truly trying to find a solution and make it the best for everyone, and... well, it is easier to say some things in conversation with someone like me, you see? If Their Majesties were asking, of course all that your sons would say would be how much better it is now than it used to be. This way, I learned... I was quite alarmed to hear about Master Starspell. That – that is cruel to your son. Starspell may not be aware, but..."

"He is not," Brierbell assured him. "He is old, and sometimes... not entirely there. He is not purposefully cruel. He is a faithful follower of Aslan."

"Well, sometimes the most ardent followers can be the cruellest," Peridan retorted. "What I am trying to say is, I am under the impression that dwarfs can be very dedicated and very good in their skills..."

"We are," she smiled.

"And if there is a chance that Rogin could make a good tailor – and I do believe he could, if he had made his own clothes...?"

"He did," Brierbell nodded.

"Well, then – not everyone is meant to be a clerk; we would die of hunger and cold if no one did anything else, and a good and dedicated craftsman is a thing to cherish. Rogin should know that. He should get the chance to be what he is good at."

Steel underneath: she could sense it now when the darkness and the glow of the candle and the far away fires suppressed his youthful face and brought out the angles in it, and when she had his voice filled with purpose more than anything else to go by.

Even though she had only met him yesterday, and even though he was just a young underling scribe, she suddenly felt he could achieve things if he put his mind to it – and he really seemed to have put his mind to something.

"Can you try?" she asked.

"I can, and I will," he replied. "You should, too."

"Twinkletop was right about you."

He shook his head.

"You should know, no matter what Mistress Twinkletop said about me, I am not a very nice person," he said, with the steel now flashing openly.

"That's what she said," Brierbell nodded.

The steel gave way to surprise.

"She did?" he asked.

"She said, I believe, that you may not be a very nice person, but that you are the sort of person we may yet need," Brierbell said. "I am beginning to understand what she meant."

He suddenly seemed not to know what to do with himself; his hands settled on the hilts of his sword and knife, but not in a threatening manner. He did it more like a man who was used to doing something with his hands and suddenly had nothing to do with them. She realised he had been gesticulating for emphasis every time he had been speaking with more agitation (which had been often).

She could not help but smile at his sudden quandary.

"But do not have it weigh too heavy on you," she said. "One man cannot save everything, so do not feel you have to, especially not on a bird's say so."

He smirked.

"But I think we can both agree that Mistress Twinkletop is not just any bird," he said.

* * *

Methos could, of course, still easily imagine himself waiting it out, just another minor hurdle in his long, long life, sitting on the sidelines while carefully jotting down official minutes and occasionally throwing an insightful and probably very sarcastic remark the tetrarchs' way. He could do that. But he already cared about these people too much, even if he were sometimes not sure why; and besides, Edmund would probably chew out most of his remarks. He was, to be completely truthful, somewhat annoyed by the fact that a twelve year old boy could have that effect on him; but the intrigue and excitement of the situation far outweighed his annoyed part. It was new and stimulating, and Edmund was just too plain _good_ for the aggravation to have any lasting effect.

And Methos was just fed up by now. He cared about these people and he was fed up with watching them fight with one another and hearing about bullying teachers and fellow students and seeing it all apparently bottled up most of the time out of some barmy misconceptions. That sort of thing happened all the time, all over the place, people exercising power, people suffering under power, but it _did not need to_ , for goodness's sake, not everywhere, not in every aspect of life. And if Mistress Twinkletop – who was clearly a person who had overcome all of that in her own little way – thought he was a person Narnia needed, then so be it; he wasn't going to be nice, but he sure as hell wasn't going to sit it out either.

* * *

Edmund wondered where Peridan had gotten to; he had noticed him leaving in the direction of the camp. So he was not really leaving just yet; was he talking to yet another participant?

It was near midnight and his siblings were already gathering their things to go to the castle. Edmund lagged behind.

"Ed?" Peter called after him.

"I would like to wait for Peridan," Edmund said.

"Can't it wait for tomorrow?" Susan asked. "You already kept him up yesterday."

"Tomorrow is Sunday," Edmund shrugged. "You go ahead."

They did; Lucy was already yawning her jaw off. Edmund had been somewhat hoping they would go without him. He had a feeling that there was some sort of unfinished conversation going on between him and Peridan. Peridan confirmed that feeling when he finally arrived.

"You were right," he said, not even bothering to call him "Your Majesty" as he otherwise usually did; but Edmund did not feel offended. He had wanted this himself, to meet on more equal ground than usual. They were meeting like friends after school hours.

"I was?" Edmund asked.

"We have to do something," Peridan said, gesturing animatedly. "We have to... dive into it and pull out a solution from underneath the mud. There is much more going on."

"Tell me," Edmund said. And Peridan did tell him. Things they had never heard of before. Things that felt familiar all the same. Teachers deciding a priori which children were good students and which were not, discouraging the latter and indeed turning them into bad students in effect. Children forced to learn trades they did not want to pursue, instead of what they were good at. Children singled out for their families' stance on education, by both teachers and other children. Children singled out for other reasons, like physical disabilities – sometimes even just for being the only members of their species in their class.

"And you learned all of that today?" Edmund asked in the end, in shocked awe.

"Most of it, I inferred," Peridan said. "Even to me, most of them would not say it directly. And that is what bothers me most. There is so much going on that we do not know about. So much that perhaps not even the parents or the teachers know about."

Edmund knew all too well how that was. There were things he would not have told Peter, let alone his teachers... He shuddered at the memory. He could not let that happen to others if at all he could help it.

"So what can we do?" he asked, sitting down on the dunes. "We cannot go and ask each and every child. Especially if those you did ask did not tell you anyway."

"Well, to begin with, if some people really want to educate their children at home, they should be able to," Peridan said firmly, sitting next to him. "And vice versa: if some people really want to send their children to school, they should be able to. Not something in between, as it is now."

"What do you mean?" Edmund asked.

"Lord Garvan told me the human lords' children have an exception from the rule, to the extent that his family considers him crazy for sending them to school anyway," Peridan replied. "That is... elitist, and it most certainly sends the wrong sort of message to people like Tazzik. Tazzik is ambitious and prideful and from what I have seen, has a propensity to being racist. And while I cannot say I have observed the same trait in any of the human lords, I do think I have observed some human elitism today. Apparently not everyone has Garvan's insight on this matter."

"You are quite right, I suppose," Edmund said. "Is it that bad, then?"

"Not really, as far as I can tell; but it could be, eventually. Sons becoming like their fathers, without the thing that made their fathers special."

"That is a huge accusation."

"Let's say I've seen it happen before."

"Oh."

He had not considered that angle. But it made perfect sense, didn't it? Was it not, more or less, Peridan's story? The family of his father looking down on him because he was not born one of them?

"Of course, that's not really the most pressing matter," Peridan said. "But it made me wonder about Tazzik's behaviour... towards me, I won't deny it. It must be leaving a bitter taste for many people to have someone – foreigners, one certain kind of people – come after the long Winter and get an exception in a matter no one else was even asked about. And I've heard about humans being dismissive of Mistress Twinkletop as well. I do not know any details; but if there is that sort of distancing going on, it could get worse."

"But we cannot press one side into going and give freedom to another," Edmund said. "We have to give the freedom to everyone, which does not quite solve this."

Peridan shrugged. "But it's just one facet of this whole... mess that I think contributes to the overall bitterness among some people. If you give the freedom to everyone, it could even out somewhat. I think most people would do what Lord Garvan does, and continue sending their children to school – after all, most Beasts seem to like it. But if, after all this debate, you give a new option to everyone, it could open some questions that have not been talked of before. Maybe some parents could ask their children, or some children find the courage to tell their parents... It won't solve overnight, and probably not even in a year. Or maybe it will never be completely solved. But... we have to do something. We have to change something. We have to give everyone a chance to do what they think best."

Edmund nodded. He agreed. Peridan was echoing his own thoughts.

"But what if people like Tazzik only close themselves in their bitterness?" he asked thoughtfully.

"I don't know," Peridan said. "That could happen. That can always happen. Some people forcing their worldviews on their children, with no outside feedback. That can be dangerous, and not just to the outside world."

"So I suppose we need to introduce some kind of checking mechanism... Some sort of general examination?" Edmund asked. "To make sure all children are taught what they need to be taught?"

"There absolutely has to be something like that," Peridan agreed. "Not that that really solves what you suggested..."

* * *

They sat there on the dunes, talking and discussing all the possible angles they could think of. Peridan was a perfect companion for such a task: he really had a sharp mind, exhibited more smart than Edmund had observed before (even though he had always been somehow aware of it). He cut straight to the heart of the matter the way Thunderbolt did, but without Thunderbolt's strict form of thinking. Sometimes, he skipped fast between topics the way Lucy often did, but in that, new connections appeared and new possibilities were opened up.

Also unlike with Thunderbolt, there was a certain degree of cynicism to Peridan's thinking. He inevitably ended all of his suggestions with "although that won't solve everything." Somehow, though, Edmund found that reassuring rather than depressing. Thunderbolt would either focus solely on what could be solved, or think those things through and only settle on the manner in which it would not work, and forego the possible solution completely. He tended to be either – or. It had, no doubt, worked well in a situation where there was an obvious foe. But that was not the issue now, and it was what had kept throwing stumbling blocks in Edmund's way. Peridan did not exclude the option of "both, so let's do what we can do now". In this situation where "both" seemed to be very much the order of the day, the "let's do what we can do now" filled Edmund with hope.

Even if the "we", for the time being, did not include his other siblings while it happened to include a scribe who could not make any actual decisions.

He wondered how much Peridan was aware of the extent to which he was breaking protocol in this conversation; and sent quiet thanks to Aslan that he either was not, or cared enough about the issue that he did not care.

* * *

On Sunday, Methos was woken up by the noon gong.

Not such a huge surprise, he thought, considering that yesterday, I went to sleep... today. But where's Arminius got to?

There was no fresh water, just a remnant from the day before. He washed his face in that, dressed quickly and went to the west wing dining room. He met the young faun in the corridor downstairs, looking shamefaced.

"I'm sorry Peridan..." he began.

"You went to sleep today," Methos finished for him.

"Um... yes."

"So did I. Don't worry about it. And by the looks of them-" he indicated a rather bedraggled group of dryads, squirrels and badgers passing through the perpendicular corridor, "- more people did. I don't think either of us missed anything important."

Arminius grinned.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Starved," Methos replied. The long discussion with the king had left him hungry even as he had finally gone to sleep; it was even more pronounced now.

The kitchen staff, he thought as he sat down to another tasty meal of pancakes and mushrooms, really deserves at least words of enormous gratitude for pulling this off so smoothly.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that kept holding this up was that I tried to work around the "hell" at the "sure" and avoid more language, but it just would not work. In that particular context, it simply loses all emphasis without it.
> 
> A guest reader at FF.net left some very blunt criticism on the previous part of the story that I answered in the note there. I felt it missed the mark somewhat in that it did not focus on the Narnian side of things at all, but it did help pull this chapter into shape in the end, and did mention one thing that had been touched upon in this chapter before and helped me decide to make it clearer. It was, quoting, "was there even a point in making this methos journey? because so far, it seems like you've confused methos with richie or some other young immortal." In this chapter, I do touch on Methos' occasionally feeling much younger than he really is. It has something to do with Narnia, and people who are closely acquainted with Narnia may figure out why I'm doing it. I hope.
> 
> So yes, I take criticism. If you feel something is off, feel free to tell me. I may ignore your particular complaint for purpose of Story, but it's likely to help me figure out I'm really doing something wrong even in terms of Story. :-)


	18. In which our hero teaches and learns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a train goes off without you, after you've pushed the door button about twenty times, the best thing to do is sit in the station café and make use of the time and their WiFi to get a new chapter to your readers.
> 
> After you've cleaned the mouse – because you've accidentally and with perfect precision dipped its cable in your hot chocolate. And then when it was finally finished, FF.net was down. Oh, and Google, too. And then my e-mail. Maybe the internet. I've got it back now. It feels like a Methos-is-not-amused kind of day. Falling into Narnia and getting lost in a forest might actually improve it. Equipped with a backpack including a mini "survival" kit with matches, I might actually be a bit better off than Methos. Although I'm not equipped with his survival instinct and knowledge.

**Chapter 18**

**In which our hero teaches and learns**

"There's one thing I don't quite understand, Arminius," Peridan said, leaning over the battlement to watch the tiny figure of Reetseep on the beach, playing ball with the equally tiny figure of one of Asta's pups. "Or rather," he corrected himself, "there are many things I don't quite understand, but there's one that's on my mind right now."

He had taken their swordfighting lesson to the battlements, claiming there was no point in learning in a courtyard if you could not apply what you've learned in a more difficult terrain. It made perfect sense, of course, like all of his lessons eventually did; like all of his lessons, it was initially very intimidating and embarrassing. (He also threatened Arminius with winter lessons in snow, with everything he would normally wear in winter. The thought of tripping on his scarf in snow during a lesson was not a particularly encouraging one.) But they had dropped the swordfighting soon, both still tired after the excitement of the previous days, in favour of simply enjoying the sun and breeze and people-watching from their elevated position.

"I don't think I know much more than you," Arminius replied cautiously.

"What is it about Mice only having learned to speak recently?" Peridan asked all the same.

"Oh."

Of course. It had to be very confusing to a foreigner. It was rather confusing for Narnians as well, although they were looking at it from a different perspective.

"It was Aslan," Arminius began explaining.

"Of course," Peridan quipped, with an alarming level of sarcasm.

"Yes, _of course_ ," Arminius retorted, more sharply than he would dare to in another matter; Peridan may know more about swordfighting and books, but he definitely did not know much about _this_.

Peridan was very difficult to read sometimes. Like right now. Other times, he could be as clear as spring water, dutiful teacher admonishing his mistakes, curious foreigner trying to learn more about his new home, or a very sleepy scribe unhappy to be woken up. Right now, Arminius was not at all sure what Peridan thought of his rebuke. But the man remained silent, which gave Arminius the chance to elaborate.

"There were Talking Mice before – before the Winter," he said. "At least people who know, like the centaurs, or Beasts who remember – they say there were. But the Witch killed them all."

Peridan drew in a sharp breath and then said something that Arminius did not understand. But the shock and horror in his voice and face was apparent. It had to be a curse, Arminius thought. Peridan had a propensity to swearing almost equal to some of the dwarfs, or some of the sailors come from Archenland. He did not do it _that_ often, but when he did, it was usually very absentminded and automatic. And in this particular case, Arminius could very well understand it. There were really no words to express the horror properly, so someone used to expressing himself that way had to resort to strong language.

"Why?" Peridan asked. As if one could really understand why the Witch had been doing such things. And Peridan seemed to realise it right away. "Stupid question," he murmured. "Because she could."

Arminius realised his heart was racing. Such thoughts always had that effect on him. It always made him think of his father. Just because that werewolf could.

"I guess... that's it," he said cautiously. "I don't really know, you know?"

"Of course," Peridan said, and this time, it was a very gentle, caring "of course".

* * *

There had, once, been a time when he would have done it. Because he could.

And here was Arminius, who'd lost his father to the Witch's servant, and still so innocent; and here was him, teaching Arminius how to use a sword.

So maybe he was doing better these days. Maybe Garvan had been right about him.

It did not make him feel any easier about the issue of the genocide – because that was what it was. It could not be a case of Mice turned into stone, like Thornbut's mother had been. Reetseep was... a completely new Mouse. The Witch had really, truly, killed them all.

"The truth is, no one knows for sure how it happened," Arminius said. "Aslan making these Mice into Talking Mice, I mean. They don't quite remember it, any of them. The oldest of them say it's like it was a different life, before – and I suppose that's exactly what it was. Can you even begin to imagine?"

He did not wait for an answer and Methos was glad he did not, because he was not sure what he could say. As an Immortal, he thought he sort of could imagine – except that he couldn't really, because he did not quite remember how he had become Immortal and what life had been like before – or what had been before and what had been after. For the Mice it was a far greater change than that.

"But it must have happened at the Stone Table," Arminius added. "Because they all come from that area, and if they remember anything, it is Aslan being _alive_ , they say. And there were mice at the Stone Table, Queen Lucy says."

"She was there?" Methos asked, suddenly realising that yes, _someone_ had to have been there to tell the story of Aslan's death and resurrection; but _Lucy_? She had been what, eight?

"Both the Queens were," Arminius replied.

So at least they had had each other. But to see it all... _that_ was something Methos could not even begin to imagine. He was long used to death and other horrors of life, himself, and he'd grown up in a cruel world, but still he thought, not like that, not that early.

And then it struck him that he had never given much thought to it so far, being Immortal, but that had been no ordinary death.

That had been no ordinary resurrection.

He groaned, laying his head down on the wall, shutting his eyes closed. This was just too much to deal with on top of everything else. But blocking out his sight did not help block out the inevitable conclusions, of course.

"Peridan?" Arminius asked with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said, raising his head again. "- No. I'm all right, but... Either everything else isn't, or I'm not all right at all. I don't understand anything. And I can't even begin to try to understand! We need to solve this school business, I can't think about these things now."

"What exactly is there to solve?" Arminius asked, surprised. Of course he was surprised. He had no idea about the depth of the thing. He didn't even know Methos had actually been interrogating him the day before.

"Everything," Methos said. "There's just so much wrong."

And then he poured most of it out, just like he had to Edmund the night before. It did not really help, he told himself, just talking about it; but it did help to put it into words, to bring it into the daylight, lifting the stones under which those islands of darkness had been lingering.

"Oh dear," Arminius said, several times, and "I had no idea."

He was particularly outraged by the story of Master Starspell and Rogin.

"That's just horrible! I had no idea centaurs could be like this."

"It's not centaurs," Methos said. "It's just him, and it's still just hearsay, you know? I mean, I believe them, both Rogin and his mother. But you can't draw conclusions about all centaurs from this one story."

"Oh. All right. But it's still horrible."

And Methos could not help but groan some more. You try to straighten out an imperfect school system, and then someone comes and tells you the Witch had killed a whole race. No wonder no one had been bothered by the issues in schools until now. There really had been much greater wrongs to be dealt with.

It was heartening, though, that even right after telling him the bone-chilling story of the Mice genocide, Arminius could still be horrified by these stories. It was an innocence Methos had lost long ago. And Arminius could draw strength from something else Methos did not understand. The faun could sit here, tell a distressing story, and be comforted by another story that made no sense to Methos.

He had never been able to comprehend that kind of faith. He could not hope to suddenly understand it now. All he could do was deal with the things he did comprehend. He could not share their faith; he never had. But that did not mean he could not help them where he could, like he had helped other people before. There was, at least, some measure of comfort for him in that.

"Would you like to go down to the beach?" Arminius asked suddenly, no doubt in an attempt to cheer him up (and maybe himself as well). "The tide is low now, maybe we could find some seashells. Or play with them," indicating the two children down at the seaside.

"Why not?" Methos replied, glad of the distraction.

"There's this special door I want to show you," Arminius said cheerfully, jumping up from the ground where he had been sitting.

They went down a flight of stone steps along the parapet; and there it was, a door set in the wall half-covered with moss and ivy. It opened out, and behind it, there were narrow stairs cut deep into the rock, winding down the cliff on which Cair Paravel towered above the beach. Methos had not seen the door before, but then, he had not really been up this side of the castle before.

The stairs were so narrow that Arminius had to go first and Methos to follow him. The hard, solid rock on both sides made it seem almost as if they had been transplanted into a different part of the country, were it not for the silent hum of the waves, the salty sea air and the occasional cry of a seagull. About halfway down, the stairs widened into a landing, where their pathway was joined by another rock-corridor.

"That goes to the cellars," Arminius said. "And down bellow, there used to be a jetty with boats, I believe, which is why the stairs are here; but now it's just a pile of stones in the sea."

So it was, collapsed down into nothing more but a small stony point jutting out into the ocean, apparently partially covered by water when the tide was high. When Methos looked back up, he realised the pathway was cut into the rock so cleverly that it was always in sight from the battlements and if any enemy decided to use it, they would be forced to advance slowly and would make an easy target for archers. Dwarf work, he thought, used as he was now to recognising their sort of ingenuity.

"I was thinking, what with you running errands all over the place, it may come handy knowing about it," Arminius said.

"It just may. Thank you."

"Most of the time, it's open, the guards usually only close it for the night."

And then they were suddenly attacked by the Pup, running around them in wild circles and half-speaking, half-barking around the small leather ball it its mouth, so that they could barely understand. Methos thought he could discern "play ball", though.

"He just won't tire," Reetseep said, coming to them at a more leisurely pace and speaking with a touch of misery to his voice.

Methos bent down and grabbed the Pup by the skin of the neck at an opportune moment.

"Calm down a bit," he said. "I can't tell a word you're saying with the ball in your mouth."

The Pup obediently dropped the ball into his palm, including swathes of saliva.

"Eugh," Arminius mumbled behind his back, even though it wasn't him who now had a palmful of redundant liquid to deal with.

"Play ball!" the Pup said triumphantly, grinning wide, one ear turned inside out.

Methos considered it for a moment.

"Can you swim?" he asked.

"Yes – Yes!" the Pup replied energetically.

"No," Reetseep said sharply.

"No," the Pup agreed with undiminished enthusiasm, tongue lolling out and legs at the ready.

Methos threw the ball on the beach and the Pup shot out after it, like a furry crossbow dart. Then Methos tried to rid himself of the saliva on the wet sand. (It wasn't a particularly good idea.)

"Asta calls him Dumbo," Arminius said quietly, with a certain level of satisfaction at how fitting the name was.

"That's his name?" Methos asked in surprise, watching the Pup fooling around with the ball.

"Probably not," Reetseep replied. "But no one really knows what his real name is."

"Maybe he'll grow out of it," Methos theorised dubiously.

"Maybe," Reetseep said.

* * *

On Monday morning, he bade goodbye to Garvan, with a promise to write maybe at the end of August or thereabouts to let the lord know how everything was progressing. "But I can tell you this, my archery skills will not have improved," he told him, and Garvan laughed.

In the days after that memorable weekend, Methos was formally relegated back to the supporting role of a scribe. But his investigations and his conversation with Edmund did change something. He had spoken his mind to the person who cared most about the issue, and Edmund in his turn had apparently spoken his mind to everyone else; the councils were now no longer concerned with "what is even going on?" and "what the school system actually is", and more with "what should the school system look like" and "how can we balance out the options".

And even now, Edmund often turned to him for an opinion, clearly convinced that it did matter. So did Lucy sometimes; she was already used to spending time with him and talking freely. But even Thunderbolt, Susan and Peter himself did ask him a question or two. The High King's question ("With your experience, Peridan, would you have preferred formal education or homeschooling, and why?") made him happy in an inordinate proportion to the importance of the question; his answer was inevitably quite ambiguous (some things were better taught one-on-one and hands on, some knowledge could not be passed on to a sufficient number of students without formal schooling). Lord Tol did not seem quite happy about this arrangement, probably because Peridan could not focus properly on the minutes when he was part of the conversation, so there was always a higher percentage of abbreviations and confusing formulations to decipher in his papers. But the others did not seem to mind and attacked the problems with renewed vigour. They had all needed that celebration, Methos thought, maybe all except poor Tol who'd carried the brunt of the organisation.

It was not wholly free of moments of pause for Methos, though.

"Dwarfs, and dwarfs again!" King Peter sighed when the race raised another extraordinary complaint (something about the food this time). "Oh, bother dwarfs! I'm beginning to wonder if Mr Beaver wasn't right all along."

"About what?" Susan asked curiously.

"Oh, that people who look human but aren't really are never a good thing. You know what he said – something about having an axe ready. Not that I'd want to behead them for this! But they really are nothing but trouble recently."

Methos felt his blood run cold. It would take just a little incident – a cut that heals and someone sees – and he's done for.

Unknowingly, Lucy came to his rescue.

"But Mrs Beaver said she knew nice dwarfs, remember? And besides – _Aslan_ never said anything like that!"

"True," Peter admitted. "We _have_ seen Mr Beaver mistaken."

"And there are people who look like humans and nobody would doubt," Edmund said. "Like Naiads. Or, you know, even Apes look a bit like humans. And then – well, humans can be nasty, too." He blushed and Peter laid a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "I think over the one hundred years with no humans, Narnians came to... see them as better than they really are. A myth of a lost perfection or something."

"Your Graces would be quite correct, I believe," Thunderbolt said. "Indeed, I think Mr Beaver's words are a mostly mistaken belief, probably strengthened by the experience with Jadis."

"All right, all right, you've convinced me," Peter laughed. "But it doesn't change anything on the fact that dwarfs are proving to be most bothersome in this issue at hand."

"They are more stubborn than most," Susan smiled. "Hard like stone; they don't bend easily."

And that was the end of that one; but it left Methos with a hollow feeling in his guts for a while.

Later that week, he was tasked with going through textbooks and determining an educational plan for everyone, together with Thunderbolt, Smithkin and a couple of other people, including Twinkletop who had been asked to stay at Cair Paravel for this very reason. They discussed everything that was in the books, trying to comprehend how much of it was necessary basics, what was more advanced learning and at what ages various people should learn those things. During these conversations, Methos learned that while most Beasts had longer life spans than their dumb counterparts, the life spans _were_ different between species. In turn, he explained some things in the books to several of the people, both those with no formal learning and those who had been to school. That confirmed his and Thunderbolt's suspicions that even though there were standardised books, there was by no means standardised teaching.

"It's not that each teacher should not teach the way they feel most comfortable," Methos said on Thursday evening as they sat down in Thunderbolt's study with some herbal tea. (Thunderbolt considered it the best accompaniment to intellectual debates, on the reasonable grounds that wine impaired thinking.)

"The way _he_ feels most comfortable," Thunderbolt reprimanded him. "Each teacher; that is singular."

"But aren't there female teachers? In that case it would be incorrect."

Thunderbolt gave him a Look. It was the look that suggested both displeasure with his wording or reasoning and displeasure at being proven wrong. Oh, great, Methos thought. Now I'm going to have an argument about genders with a centaur.

"Fascinating," Thunderbolt said only. "Here, grammar comes short of reality."

"Language always comes short of reality," Methos said.

"It often does. I am not sure you can so categorically say 'always', though."

Methos shrugged.

"Language is a code," he said. "Condensed."

Thunderbolt gave him another Look.

"They should all teach the same amount of information," he said, completely abandoning the issue. Methos thought it was a victory, but it did not feel like much of one. Maybe a temporary truce.

"Well, at least the same _minimal_ amount of information," Methos said. "It looks like we will have to teach the teachers first."

"Well, it may not be that necessary," Thunderbolt said. "Now it is mostly centaurs who are teaching, and we do not lack knowledge."

"Teach about teaching," Methos said.

"What do _you_ know about teaching?" Thunderbolt asked.

Methos shrugged. He had been a teacher before. But he could not tell him that.

"I teach Arminius," he said.

"Ah, that is different," Thunderbolt said and yawned. It was maybe the fifth yawn that evening.

"It would seem I am adding to your workload, instead of taking from it," Methos remarked. Thunderbolt smiled.

"Discussion of an interesting topic is not work," he said.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on influences on the previous chapter that I forgot to include, as I'm wont to do: The axe dance is based around odzemek and obuškový tanec (in Czech), forms of male dance spread in the Carpathian region (in my country, in Moravian Wallachia). Look it up on YouTube if you want to see. It's definitely more an improvised show of skill and one-upmanship than strictly a dance (and yes, there's even a competition), and as such, I thought something like that was fitting for my view of dwarfs, even if their bodies may be a bit too short and stocky for some of the tricks displayed in those videos. Other male dances from the region, actually all the way to Central Asia (I've seen an Uyghur dance in this vein on YouTube) are also kind of shows of skill, and actually all feature somewhat similar clothes, too, so I put it all together and adapted it a bit for the situation, because it felt right.
> 
> This chapter brought to you with the help of photos found on Pinterest, my Mum's remark about dogs never tiring when they play ball that she actually said about a week after I wrote the scene, and some overall mixed up feelings. There's a scene I desperately want to get in there somewhere before I move on with the story elsewhere, but it just did not fit here. I really do not want to relegate it to a Deleted Scene, but I just may have to... this part of the story is already taking longer than I originally wanted it to.


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